 
HIMAL GOLD

Raymond A. Porter

Copyright © 2018 Raymond A. Porter. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the publisher.

Silver Ghost Productions

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my friend Laxman Basnet, who lives in Kathmandu, for challenging me to write this story.

And a big thank you to Graham Saunders who helped bring the story to life.
Prologue

The year 1938 was memorable in many ways, marked with many notable accomplishments and discoveries. The first ascent of the north face of the Eiger, Howard Hughes set a new record by completing a flight around the world, in just ninety-one hours. Oil was discovered in Saudi Arabia and DuPont announced the name for its newly developed synthetic fibre – _Nylon_. It was the year that comic book hero Superman made his first appearance, Daffy Duck made his animated film début, and Walt Disney's ground-breaking _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_ was released in the US. In the arts, the ballet _Romeo and Juliet,_ with music by Prokofiev, made its first full performance at the Mahen Theatre in Brno, Czechoslovakia.

But, 1938 was also a year of darkness, as fascism was starting to spread its doctrine across the world. The bloody Spanish Civil War continued at a fast pace, as Alicante was bombed by rebels. The Imperial Japanese Army largely overran Canton, and Mussolini took power over the Italian military by being appointed 'First Marshal of the Empire'. That year, Adolf Hitler was Time magazine's "Man of the Year". The civilised world gasped in horror as the Führer established the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, giving him ungoverned control of the German military machine. It marked the start of the Holocaust with the so-called 'Kristallnacht', the "night of broken glass", as Nazi activists and sympathisers, encouraged by their Führer, openly looted and burned Jewish businesses. In the same year, Hitler threatened to unleash a European war unless the Sudetenland, a border area of Czechoslovakia containing an ethnic German majority, was surrendered to Germany. Even the most remote places on the planet were not immune to this twentieth century blight as the fascist disease spread its poisonous tendrils across the planet.

Little more than a dozen years later, with the Second World War over, 1953 was also a notable year across the world.

Joseph Stalin died following a stroke and the Korean War ended with the Korean Armistice Agreement. The Soviet Prime Minister, Georgi Malenkov, announced that the Soviet Union had developed a hydrogen bomb, Cambodia became independent from France and the European Economic Community held its first assembly in Strasbourg.

In the world of science and technology, Crick and Watson discovered the molecular structure of DNA, the Douglas D-558-II Skyrocket, piloted by Scott Crossfield, became the first manned aircraft to reach Mach 2, and a little slower, but more accessible, the first Chevrolet Corvette was built at Flint Michigan.

In the world of entertainment, the first James Bond novel, Casino Royale, was published and Hugh Hefner unveiled the first issue of Playboy magazine, featuring a centrefold nude photograph of a certain young lady, by the name of Marilyn Monroe.

For Britain, the year was perhaps notable for the end of sugar rationing and the British team finally conquered the highest mountain on earth. It was also the year of the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.
Chapter One

Unnoticed by most of the world, a sparsely populated region to the southwest of Baidang in Tibet had attracted some unwanted interest. To the south, on a clear day, the snow-capped Himalayas could be seen rising into the sky like a blurry portal to the heavens. The day in question, was however, by no means clear. The first heavy snowfalls of the changing season were not far away, and a cold mist had coiled over the dusty landscape waiting for the watery sun to eventually dissipate it. There was a small building, drawn from the landscape as if an invisible hand had modelled the cabin from the scattered schist in a moment of absentmindedness. Its original purpose was uncertain, possibly a shelter for the goat herds, or an outbuilding of the monastery that stood on the high ground overlooking the valley. For the present, the abandoned wind-blown building housed a group of German soldiers. They had driven across the bleak terrain, uninvited but without resistance, and now huddled from the cold for a brief break in their journey.

The sky was leaden, filled with something more than a natural gathering of storm clouds. It was as if the skyscape knew what work of infamy was about to unfold. To the north, a narrow rocky road wound its way across the barren land until it disappeared silently into the mist. Inside the shelter, the peace was disturbed by a snarl of wind, as it forced its way through the gaps in the stonework. Sebastian pulled his army greatcoat round his shoulders, the collar pulled up to his ears. If he closed his eyes and let his imagination run, he could almost grasp the lost days of his childhood. Days when he could lay in bed, waiting for the school day to begin, with the seductive smell of bacon tempting him from his slumber. A youth of just eighteen, his mother had sent him a package of home baked Lebkuchen biscuits, and he passed them round among his comrades who greedily shared the welcome bounty. The young men had little understanding of why they had been sent to this god-forsaken place, but the Lebkuchen represented a moment of comfort, a sweet reminder of happier times.

The infantry squad was one of a number of such expedition groups, scattered over the area. The Nazi regime had plans to create an empire and for that, the need to annex the Asian continent and to find access points of strategic stronghold was of great interest to them. Perhaps of more immediate interest however, was the need for a means of financing their current activities in Europe. In short, they had an interest in gold. Over the centuries the Tibetan monasteries had accumulated notable wealth, and it was this prospect that, for some, sweetened their surveying.

Sebastian held his tin cup of bitter coffee to warm his hands, while the sharp wind whistled about him. He looked up through the rising steam of his mug as an officer entered via the half rotten timber door. By a reaction that had now become second nature, the men stood to attention as Hauptmann Weiss leaned his weight against the timber frame and forced the door shut against the biting wind.

"Finish your coffee... sit, sit. You have five minutes before we have to go."

Weiss was middle-aged, he had family links to the German military that stretched back to more honourable times. He had been destined to be a soldier from his birth and had accepted his lot with a measure of patriotic stoicism, rather than any real enthusiasm. Weiss knew what was likely to be in store this late morning, but it was his duty to follow orders no matter how distasteful. With a somewhat hooked nose, bitter mouth and dark eyes, that seemed to be tunnelled into his skull, he looked almost sinister. What he had endured over the past year was engraved on his features.

"Five minutes and assemble by the truck, there is work to be done, and never forget that it is for the glory of the Reich."

He clicked the heels of his polished boots in a fashion that seemed to echo a different age, when chivalry was still not an outdated concept. He left his men, boys really, and returned to the wind and feathering snow that had just started to pirouette down from the heavy sky.

"Very well men, you heard what the Hauptmann said... drink up..."

But before Unteroffizier Gunther Scarff's words could be finished, they were drowned by an ungodly howl that seemed to echo from every direction at once and filled each man with dread.

" _Was zum Teufel_?" Vincent swore, as he spilled hot coffee into his lap.

There was no answer until Gunther suggested that it was just the wind.

"There's no fucking way that was just the wind..."

"You have a better explanation perhaps?"

Vincent did not and no one else spoke, but the sound of the howl was etched into their memories. It was almost the sound of a tormented animal, it might have been a wolf, but no man had heard such a sound from the throat of a wolf. It was deeper, more menacing. But, something much more than that... there was something primal, something almost human that echoed in the bone chilling angst of the sound. It was a sound that had the power to bring a grown man to his knees.

The officer burst back in through the door. He was pale and shaken, and spoke with a tremor in his voice:

"Come along men... _Wecken sie sich..._ it's time to go."

"Sir, what was that sound?"

Weiss had no answer, he was no less troubled than his men, but as a Wehrmacht officer could show no fear in front of his men. He paused before answering, and then said simply:

"There was no sound, soldier."

He spoke with a conviction that almost seemed plausible, if not for his bloodless face and trembling fingers.

"Now move, before you are all put on a charge."

The men exchanged nervous glances and exited the dilapidated building with caution, not sure what abomination might be waiting for them. There was nothing there, nothing to have made such a howl.

Hauptmann Weiss had hurriedly made for the truck's cab and was already seated, apparently studying a map. His driver joined him, sliding behind the large wheel while the other men clambered into the canvas covered rear of the 3-ton Opel Blitz. They found seats on the empty packing crates that filled half the truck's floor space. While the last soldier pulled himself up wearily, the truck jerked forward as the driver dropped the clutch in his hurry to leave the place behind him. If not for Sebastian's strong young arm, he might have been left behind. As he glanced back, he thought he saw something, the blur of a figure, white against the rocky skyline. But, he could not be sure. Whatever had made the howl, man or beast, flesh or spirit, it was out there somewhere, and the sooner they got away from that place the better.

The Opel truck bounced along the narrow rocky road that was barely wide enough for the vehicle. It had been cut into the cliff by the Chinese, whose sovereignty over Tibet was still held in dispute by many Tibetans. One side of their road stretched up to a steep cliff face, and a merciless drop fell away on the other. The driver kept in low gear and made slow progress, churning up a cloud of dust that swirled with the dancing snowflakes.

Inside the back of the truck was general disquiet, the men were bounced about on the hard suspension as the Blitz cautiously made its way across the rutted track. A packet of cigarettes was passed around, but no one seemed interested in smoking. From the front, over the sound of the truck's engine, they could hear the officer's muffled voice directing the driver to watch for the edge.

" _Gott im Himmel_ , take care you fool."

The men could detect something in the tone of the officer's voice, an apprehension that the perilous journey was doing nothing to soften. The men picked up on this and glancing at each other, found their already heightened tension growing. All except for Gunther. Nothing seemed to faze the man. Tall, strong as a bull with blond hair and deep blue eyes, he was the archetypical Aryan by appearance. But, his manner was one of jovial good humour. He was in his mid-twenties, originally from a farming family until the Depression ate away at their income. The father borrowed to keep their heads above water, but ultimately, the mortgage payments could no longer be met. Bit by bit, over the years they sold down their assets until nothing of value was left. They lost everything, the head of the family, the father, took his own life in a last desperate act and the remaining family, mother, sisters and two brothers, were scattered across the country to stay with distant relatives. Both sons eventually joined the military. Gunther Scarff joined the army, while his brother, Hanns, was accepted into the Luftwaffe. Gunther had already been promoted to the rank of Unteroffizier and his advancement in the army seemed assured. Gunther found the life of a soldier a relief after the pointless and soul-destroying struggle to make a living from the small family farm. He made every effort to make a success of his army life and sent what little he could afford, back to his mother and sisters. He stubbornly held on to a goal of one day, being able to buy the family farm back, and restore his family's fortune.

Without warning the truck suddenly hit a rock, the soldiers in the back lost their seats as the driver fought for control. The rock was one of the many that fell down from the cliff edge, especially after the heavy monsoon rains. Lodged in shadow and hidden by the swirling mist, it was unseen through the truck's grimy windscreen. The rock was hardly bigger than a decent sized loaf of swartzbrot, the sort that Sebastian's mother would bake three times a week. It was big enough, however, to lift the truck on its stiff suspension, unbalance the heavy vehicle and send it careering towards the drop. The driver stomped hard on the brakes, causing the truck to slither sideways, he wrestled with the steering wheel as he fought to recover control of the Blitz's momentum.

The truck finally came to rest with a rear wheel hanging in the air, over the drop. Hauptmann Weiss was almost in hysterics as he shouted orders to the driver.

" _Scheisse, scheisse_. Reverse away from the edge... _schnell, schnell_!"

With a noisy grinding of gears, the driver eventually rammed the lever into reverse and let out the clutch. The free wheel spun in the air, but there was no drive to the wheel that might have been able to pull them free.

"Stop, stop, you idiot, you're making us slide closer to the damned edge."

Weiss cautiously looked from his side window, what he saw was of no comfort to him. The truck was now precariously balanced over the edge. Looking down, all he could see was a precipice that would have them all rolling to their deaths into the mist shrouded valley.

"Everyone out, _schnell, schnell_! Try not to rock the truck."

Weiss banged on the rear of the cabin, but the men had already found their feet and had jumped from the truck. The driver eased his way out and the Hauptmann followed. His own door would have opened onto a free-fall of 50 metres or more.

White and shaken, Hauptmann Weiss stood on solid ground, trying to regain his composure. He knew it was vital not to show weakness in front of his men, but his mind was a blur. Clear thinking was not really a possibility, but he had to say something to reassure his men.

"Very well men, we find ourselves in a small predicament, no need for concern... Does anyone have a suggestion on how we might recover the truck from the edge?"

It was Gunther who spoke first, he was not unfamiliar with having to free vehicles that had become stuck in the heavy wet clay that plagued his farm in the winter months. Often, he was able to utilise the muscle of one of the village Shire horses, but if that failed... there were always other ways.

"Sir, if I may speak?"

"What? Yes, yes, if you have a suggestion Unteroffizier Scarff."

"There is a block and tackle and ropes in the truck, sir. We could attach the rope to that rocky outcrop and pull the truck back onto the road."

"My thoughts exactly. Good, good, I was wondering who else would spot the obvious solution first. Very well, get on with it Scarff, organise your men, we have little time to lose."

Weiss brushed the dust from his uniform and edged his way past the truck until he was out of sight of his busy men. He pulled a small hip flask from one of his voluminous buttoned pockets and took a mouthful of Schnapps. He leaned back against the rock of the cliff and looked up, into the sky. The clouds still hung heavy and ominously overhead. As he lifted his eyes, he saw a pair of Himalayan vultures that had strayed a long way east from the Lhasa River watershed. They circled the truck, as if it might offer something of interest. Their huge wingspan gave them easy lift in turbulent air, and a graceful elegance on the wing. Up close, he knew the vultures were ugly creatures, foul harbingers of death.

For Weiss it had been a troubling day; a too early start, the close call with the cliff edge... the bone chilling call of something too strange to be acknowledged. Weiss prayed that whatever had made that howl, had been left far behind. He took another mouthful from his silver flask and put it away out of sight. The alcohol burned his throat but gave him a little courage. The day was not over yet, and he knew, as an honourable officer with pride in his military heritage, that the worst of the day was yet to come. The man he was scheduled to rendezvous with was known to him, his reputation stretched far and wide.

It took the men the best part of an hour to winch the truck back onto the road. Luckily, apart from a little cosmetic scuffing, the truck was undamaged. They all clambered aboard, and the Blitz continued along the road at an even more cautious rate. After a few miles, they reached the top of a small incline, and laying before them stood a scattering of buildings that was, according to Hauptmann Weiss' map, the long anticipated village of Sachri.

The road was wider now as they approached what passed for civilisation in these parts. The truck cautiously gained speed, as they closed in on the village.

"Stop here for a moment," Weiss ordered.

He pulled out his field glasses and peered down through the windscreen. Somewhat separated from the main village, he could see the rather modest looking monastery, the flash of a brightly coloured banner whipping in the wind, looked almost welcoming. Parked not far away, was an M12 Stoewer staff car bearing SS insignia. Painted in glossy black, and from the distance of a half kilometre, Weiss thought the car resembled a stag beetle that had scuttled out from some filthy crevice. There appeared to be two non-ranking soldiers, a senior officer, whose arrogant bearing could be seen even from this distance. Accompanying them, was a bedraggled local man seated in the rear of the open-topped car.

"Down there, Grenadier, park the truck a little behind the staff car."

"Yes, sir."

The Opel Blitz eased to a stop, through a cloud of diesel fumes, with squealing brakes. Weiss got out of the truck and marched up to the waiting staff car. He saluted the SS officer in the prescribed manner. Even out here, beyond the edge of the civilised world, the influence of the Führer was as inescapable, as it was annoying, to a man who had little sympathy for the politics of the Nazi party.

"You are late Weiss; do you have any idea how long you have kept us waiting in this god awful place."

"I apologise, SS-Obersturmbannführer. We had a little difficulty on the road."

"It is a Sunday afternoon drive Hauptmann, if you can find difficulty in that, then maybe you have chosen the wrong career path."

Weiss clicked his heels and stood to a stiff attention.

SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus was a stern man, his cheek was adorned with a scar that popular opinion lay at the door of a duel, fought with sabres like the hussars of old. Kraus had clearly survived the incident and he said nothing to deny the voracity of the gossip surrounding the incident.

"It will not happen again, SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus."

Kraus sniffed and got out of the car. He addressed one of his accompanying enlisted men.

"Bring the local peasant."

"Yes sir."

The soldier pulled the Tibetan man from the car, he seemed a rather reluctant participant, but was unable to summon any resistance. It was clear that he had been systematically interrogated until his spirit, along with several fingers and a rib or two, were broken. His face was swollen and bloodied, and he moved with obvious discomfort.

Kraus spoke in English. He was an educated man and had spent some pleasant months doing post graduate studies at Oxford. English was already becoming something of a lingua franca, and due to the long term British presence in the area, some of the more educated Tibetans could understand the language. It made the job easier for Kraus. Extracting information from someone, with whom one shares no common language, can be a tiresome business.

"You... peasant..."

He took the local man by the arm in an unnecessarily strong grip. His gloved fingers leaving further bruising on the man's slender arm.

"You are certain that this is the place you told us about?"

The Tibetan avoided eye contact with the SS-Obersturmbannführer. He looked up and saw in the distance a gathering of villagers who had come to see what was happening.

"Answer me, you snivelling dog."

The man turned his gaze back to the dusty ground, he gave a simple nod of his head.

"Good, your cooperation has been of considerable value to the Reich. You will be pleased to hear that your service with us is now completed."

The man could hardly believe his ears, was he to be released, able to return to his wife and six- month-old son? Able to resume his duties teaching at the small school he had helped build in the next village? He allowed his eyes to lift and saw SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus make a nodding motion to one of his men. Kraus indicated with a jab of his finger, a position to the side of the cobbled path that led up to the monastery.

The SS soldier marched up from the staff car, saluted Kraus and took the unfortunate man by the arm, leading him to where the SS-Obersturmbannführer had indicated. Kraus had already turned his attention to the monastery before the crack of a P08 Luger echoed across the grounds, and the man fell silently, leaving a brief pulse of crimson blood to stain the dust, before his heart stopped forever.
Chapter Two

SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus took the execution of the local man as if it were an everyday occurrence, of little significance, simply a trivial matter to be dealt with efficiently and then instantly forgotten. For the young soldiers who piled out of the Opel Blitz, such a scene of total disregard for the life of an innocent man was beyond their understanding. A couple had seen a little action in Spain, but most were still naive and 'unbloodied'. Weiss brought his men to attention and, with a grey face that seemed drawn with premature age, addressed them:

"What you have just seen may appear shocking, but you must understand that the acts of the Reich may from time to time appear callous. Understand this..."

Hauptmann Weiss paused, as if searching for the right words. He rocked back and forth on his heels, but knew in his heart that there were no right words.

"You must accept, that what you have seen is just a small part of what is taking place. Only the senior officers have the full picture. We must accept their wisdom and follow their orders to the letter. This is what is expected of every patriotic German in the Wehrmacht. Nothing less than full loyalty to the cause of the Reich will be accepted. We are entering a period of great change for our Fatherland. What you have seen over the past few years, is just the beginning of our glorious resurgence as a great nation-empire. Our Führer has an understanding of these things that goes beyond the normal foot soldier's wit. We must believe in him and his senior officers, for only they know what must be done. It is their mission to make Germany great again, and if a few peasants must fall, then the sacrifice will not be in vain. Be proud and do your duty. Your duty is simply to obey your orders to the best of your abilities... Germany asks no more, and no less than that."

Kraus had paused on the cobbles that led up to the monastery grounds and had heard some of what Weiss had said.

"Hauptmann... join me for a moment," he called across the immaculate, yet simple garden to the courtyard, where the squad was assembled.

An ancient iron bell stood suspended on a wooden frame, it was rocking almost imperceptibly in the wind. Weiss marched up to the SS officer, like a puppy called to heel.

"You wish to speak with me Obersturmbannführer?"

"Hauptmann Weiss, I feel you are treating your men with kid gloves. They require no explanation of what we as officers of the Reich are doing. What you said was true, but the enlisted men of the Wehrmacht must simply follow orders, or face the consequences... do you understand?"

"Yes, Obersturmbannführer, I was just..."

"Or face the consequences, Hauptmann."

Weiss fell silent and came to attention.

"Good... so, bring your men to the monastery, we have important work to do."

The two walked together up the path and then crossed through another small tranquil garden and into the monastery. Through the entrance, the monastery seemed embraced in stillness. There were a few monks seated cross-legged in silent meditation. A distant bell was sounding a deep and sonorous tone while the air was kissed by the delicate aroma of incense. The meditating monks appeared to take no notice of the soldiers; they seemed unwilling to lose the tranquillity that held them connected to the edge of Nirvana – the state of perfect quietude, freedom, happiness and liberation from Samsāra, the repeating cycle of birth, life and death.

The two Nazi officers looked up at the large plaster Buddha and might have felt like intruders in a place of holy sanctuary, if their sense of self-importance had not been so inflated.

"This must be the place," Kraus said. "Bring your men in and let's see what treasures we can liberate for the Reich."

Weiss marched back across the ornately tiled floor, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. He waved to his squad.

"This way, Unteroffizier Scarff, assemble your men in here."

The soldiers marched up and fell silent as they entered the monastery. SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus lifted his voice as he addressed the men.

"I want this place searched thoroughly; I am reliably informed that there is much gold to be found here... Especially, I understand, a particular golden statue that is worth a considerable amount of money. Be careful not to damage what you find... some of the gold items will have greater worth as relics than their bullion value if melted down."

As the Obersturmbannführer's words faded away, the Lama appeared from an antechamber. He approached the officers with a bow and a serene, gentle smile. Beyond the smile, there was disquiet behind his dark eyes; the infamy of the Nazis had not failed to penetrate the seclusion of even his remote retreat.

"Do you gentlemen speak English? I am afraid that my simple mind has not yet learned the intricacies of the German language."

Kraus looked at the monk with contempt. He pulled out his pistol and fired a single shot through the monk's head. He turned to his own men who stood protectively at his shoulder.

"Deal with the others."

He nodded towards the other monks who had been meditating but had suddenly lost their serenity and were now standing facing the soldiers in a defensive posture. Their ultimate transcendence lay just seconds away, as machine gun bullets tore apart their flesh and maybe, opened a door to their next reincarnation; just another step on their infinite journey.

"Get to work searching... anything of value... don't just stand there you morons."

The men moved forward, all except Gunther. He was outraged by what he had just seen.

"We are good German people not monsters... how can you do such a...?"

The SS-Obersturmbannführer turned to his own men.

"Take him prisoner, a soldier who will not follow orders is simply a liability... take him outside and guard him until we are finished here. If he moves, shoot him."

He lifted his voice and it echoed across the monastery with a warning.

"Are there any further dissenting voices?"

No one spoke; the men did exactly what they had been instructed to do. Weiss's troops were having a lesson in being under the direct command of the feared SS.

Hauptmann Weiss turned to the Obersturmbannführer.

"With all due respect, sir, Gunther Scarff is one of my best men. He was instrumental in salvaging the truck on the mountain pass... I trust he will be dealt with fairly."

Kraus seemed to ignore the Hauptmann's plea, he was looking round at the ancient building and waved his gloved hand in a dismissive gesture, as if he were batting away an annoying insect. Weiss's words went unacknowledged.

"You know Weiss, these temples are almost impressive..."

He took a few steps and tapped his knuckles against the large plaster Buddha.

"Nicely made, but ultimately worthless. These people may be primitive, but their naive manner is not without charm. I can see no point in destroying more than is necessary to obtain what we need."

He turned on his heel and walked towards the door. It was colder outside, and a few delicate flakes of snow danced in the air, lifted by the wind that rose up from the valley. In the distance, as he turned his arrogant gaze, he could see a group of villagers gathered under the shelter of an old Chirr pine tree. They seemed to be assembling, disturbed and agitated by the sound of gunfire. As far as he could see the villagers were unarmed, though some carried staves. The thought seemed to amuse Kraus and a shallow smile twisted at his lips. Back inside the monastery, all the customary stillness had long since evaporated. As instructed, the soldiers ransacked the monastery, mindlessly destroying sacred written texts and smashing pots, jars and hollow statues to see what might have been hidden inside. After little more than half an hour their work was done. The loot was carefully collected and placed on a brightly coloured and intricately patterned woven rug, a few paces from the doorway. Kraus returned to the monastery, satisfied by what he saw, the bounty was greater than expected.

"Excellent... and I see you have found the famous Sang Khor Golden Buddha, our interrogation of the peasant was not without merit after all."

He turned towards Weiss.

"Our people, the ones who know about such things, believe this relic to have been crafted in India over 500 years ago. There are astute collectors around the world who will pay handsomely for such an artefact, should it come to market."

Kraus seemed quite animated and excited as he inspected the plates, chalices, ornate bells and golden chains. They were mostly finely crafted of gold, but there was also a good collection of silver-work, which would bring a handsome price.

"This has been a worthwhile expedition men, highly successful. I congratulate your efforts. Now, I want you men to pack these items in the crates you have in the truck. Make sure that they are carefully wrapped and then encased in straw, we want no damage to befall them. Pack everything... except for the Sang Khor... I will take charge of that myself."

He lifted it carefully from the hand-woven rug and held it to his chest, as if it was a medal of honour won in battle.

"Weiss, to a darker issue that still needs an appropriate resolution... Bring your men out into the lower garden."

Kraus made his way back to the steps.

"Where is the venal coward who chose to question my direct order?"

"He is here, SS-Obersturmbannführer."

"Tie his hands behind his back, then to that rather decorative pole supporting the banner."

Kraus's soldier looked up at the banner that was streaming in the brisk wind, making a vivid red and yellow contrast against the grey sky.

"Yes, sir."

Gunther was taken and tied to the pole. Obersturmbannführer Kraus paced up to the disgraced man and looked into his eyes, he turned back and addressed the troops.

"It is necessary to make an example of all soldiers of the Reich who cannot follow simple orders." His eyes turned back to Gunther. His words were unemotional and all the more chilling for that. "Unteroffizier Scarff, your family will be ashamed to hear that you were executed for blatantly questioning a direct order and showing extreme cowardice when on active duty."

Gunther was a courageous man, he had shown that all his troubled life and now stood defiant in the face of death; he would not accept Kraus's assertion.

"I showed no cowardice," he said.

It was an undeniable statement of fact but held no sway with the SS officer, his continued defiance simply afforded Kraus a confirmation of the Unteroffizier's character.

"Is that so...? The written report added to your record will tell a different story."

He directed his next words to the SS soldier that stood at his shoulder:

"Blindfold him..."

"No, I need no blindfold... I wish to see the eyes of the only real coward here, as I am murdered for no reason."

"So be it..."

He turned to Weiss's gathered men and selected three of them at random.

"You, you and you; stand here with your rifles."

He turned to his fellow officer who was hovering uncomfortably.

"Hauptmann Weiss... I will leave you to issue the command, these men are your responsibility."

"Obersturmbannführer, are you sure this is necessary. Surely some form of rebuke would be sufficient."

The three men who made up the impromptu firing squad turned and muttered among themselves. One of them spoke up in an act of courage that might have won him a medal in saner times.

"We aren't going to do it, sir, we can't shoot Gunther just for speaking his mind, we all agree on that."

The rest of Weiss's men mumbled unanimous support for their comrade. Kraus, despite his bluster, could see that his intentions had minimal support and if he tried to impose his will, there might well be the possibility of a mutiny. He and his SS men were just three and were severely outnumbered. He clutched the Sang Khor Buddha tight... he had his prize, his mission was complete anyway. In any case, he thought, there were still the villagers to contend with, he needed the support of Weiss's squad... there would be time later to redress the balance, to correct this outrageous insubordination, he would choose a time at his leisure.

"I am a reasonable man Weiss. You may deal with your Unteroffizier according to your own conscience."

His voice then dropped to a whisper, the words were intended solely for the Hauptmann.

"These troops are just cannon fodder Weiss, they don't have the steel of the SS elite. I see now that I cannot expect such high standards as I demand of my own men... But, on your shoulders be it Weiss, I will let you choose your own punishment for the man... I think he has learned his lesson in any case."

"Thank you Obersturmbannführer, your compassion is an example to us all."

Weiss issued an instruction that Gunther be untied.

"Place him in the truck under arrest, I will deal with him when we are gone from here."

While this was happening, the villagers were creeping closer, one of the men noticed the statue that Kraus was still clutching and pointing towards it called out in anger. He was carrying a stave and raised it over his head in anger. The crowd surged forward, fired by a boiling sense of indignation. Two monks who had been working in the gardens emerged from the monastery in a furious rage. They called out to the villagers, describing the butchery they had discovered within the hallowed walls. The man with the raised stave rushed forward. One of the SS men marched towards him, his pistol raised to chest height.

"Get back you dogs."

His words were meaningless to the villagers, but whatever he might have said would have been like dust on the wind, no words could subdue their anger. The hardwood stave, polished smooth by years of use, came down with such speed that the SS soldier had no time to react. His wrist was broken, and the gun fell from his hand. The villager leaped forward and drove the wooden shaft at the soldier's chest. The SS soldier looked astonished for a moment, but then overcome with pain, gasping for breath he fell back. In an athletic leap the villager was on top, holding the German in a strangle hold, his intent was clear.

"Shoot him... shoot him!" Kraus screamed.

The other SS soldier had already squeezed the trigger of his M40 machine gun. The bullets tore into the villager's chest, and he fell away from the humiliated SS soldier, his clothing shredded and bloodied. The soldier got to his feet and limped back to the gathered expedition squad who were now wielding their weapons, suddenly in fear of their own lives. The villagers gathered up the body of their friend and retreated a little from the threat of the machine gun. They stood back, close to a pine tree as if its branches might offer some protection.

Kraus seemed to have regained something of his arrogant composure and called out to the agitated villagers. None of them could understand what he was saying, but Kraus in his arrogance was oblivious of this.

"This outburst is most infuriating... I had intended on sparing you, but my compassion is now completely spent by this outrage..."

He turned to the men and instructed them not to leave a single one of them alive.

"Shoot these creatures like the dogs they are."

Weiss's men were unwilling participants, but they had endured a salutary lesson with Gunther's near execution. They looked from one to another as the villagers held their ground, it was clear that the golden Buddha was precious to them, and even now, they were far from ready to let it go. It held their sacred hopes for an eternal future, the ancient metal had been held by the hands of their ancestors for hundreds of years, it had absorbed too much karma for them to allow it to be taken by these foreign invaders.

"Shoot them, shoot them all," Kraus snarled, he was not used to having his orders debated, not even for a second.

Weiss called out to the villagers with a warning; he doubted they could understand, but he had no stomach for what was looking to become a massacre.

"Get back or you will be shot!" he shouted.

Instead, the villagers were now advancing towards the troops again. From seemingly nowhere they drew out scythes and machetes, and their slow advance turned in an instant, into an enraged charge. The soldiers were suddenly in fear of their own safety, and one by one their Karbiner 98K rifles and MP40 machine guns were put to the use they had been manufactured for.

It was a brief skirmish, farming tools are no match for high velocity bullets. What transpired had been nothing less than a massacre. The civilians, mostly unarmed, were simply mowed down like a crop of ripe barley at harvest time. They may have been naive, but they died with justice and courage on their side. As the firing started, when it became clear that they stood no chance, the villagers turned and ran, but they were chased and hunted without mercy. All were felled, men, women and children, old and young, villagers and monastery monks and nuns, no one was spared.

As silence fell over the scene and the soldiers came down from their frenzy, they were stunned at the enormity of what they had done. Some sank to their knees and watched in astonishment as SS- Obersturmbannführer Kraus walked among the bodies; with pistol drawn he shot anyone who showed the slightest sign of life through the head. There would be no survivors to tell their tale. As he turned back with the shadow of a sickening smile on his narrow lips, he still clutched the Sang Khor Golden Buddha.

The snow was falling more heavily now and starting to settle like a white shroud over the scene. In a few hours, the village and its monastery would appear clean and virginal, as if no atrocity had ever taken place. But maybe, some eyes had seen the events of that day, from across the snow-muffled landscape there came, almost too far away to hear, a deep and menacing howl.
Chapter Three

Weiss's men were tasked with packing the stolen treasure into crates. They set about their work in stunned silence, still shocked by what had happened. Hauptmann Weiss took a meticulous inventory, itemising each piece with a brief description and detailing any identifying marks. The men then carefully wrapped each piece and cushioned them in the straw filled crates. Weiss kept a copy of his inventory for his own records and another was stapled onto each crate, detailing the contents. When the job was complete, the crates were lifted into the truck, and then the men climbed in. Gunther was already inside, his left wrist handcuffed to the truck's frame. He was shivering in the cold, and his head was lowered as if there was something intriguing to be found on the leather of his boots. Of all the squad, only he had escaped involvement in the massacre. He had been unable to see anything, but the terrible sounds were enough to tell him all too clearly what had happened. Young Sebastian moved across the truck and sat next to him.

"You all right Gunther?" he asked.

Gunter looked up and saw the paleness in Sebastian's face, the tremble that still shook his hands.

"I've been better Sebastian, it's not every day you get to face a firing squad... but, how about you?"

"It was a bloody massacre out there Gunther, those fucking villagers stood no chance..."

Gunther rested his free hand on the young man's shoulder, an expression of consolation where there really could be none.

"The worst of it was that we all got drawn into it like some kind of a panic... God alone knows how many of those poor bastards I shot myself."

There were tears in Sebastian's eyes.

"I've never even shot my rifle in anger before..."

There was a judder in the frame of the truck as the Opel's starter motor ground the diesel engine into life. It settled into a noisy idle with sulphurous diesel fumes creeping into the truck's rear. Outside, the men could hear Hauptmann Weiss talking to SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus. Their words were muffled, but there seemed to be a congratulatory tone in the SS officer's voice. After a few moments they heard the staff car pull away, and then the truck's cab door slam shut as the Hauptmann took his seat in the front.

The truck jolted forward. It was a relatively easy drive to the improvised airfield that was their next destination. The road was wider, and although it wound down the valley twisting and turning, there were no precipitous drops to endanger their progress. Weiss estimated that it would take about an hour and a half.

"Anyone got a smoke?" Sebastian asked.

"Sure..."

Several packets were handed round, the need for a smoke and maybe a little normality, was overwhelming after what the young men had been through. Sebastian leaned into the match flame as it was cupped against the wind that drew in through the partly open canvas rear. He inhaled deeply, not really a smoker, he struggled to contain the involuntary cough, but he needed something to calm his nerves.

"I'm sorry that you guys had to do that... that thing back there. None of us are monsters." Gunther said.

"It was us or them Gunther... we had no choice... I wish it was different, but we had no fucking choice..."

The man's voice broke, and he dragged hard on his cigarette to disguise his emotion.

"I know, I know... look, I also need to thank you guys for standing up for me... it was a bloody brave thing to do... a real act of courage to refuse to carry out that order."

"Those self-important SS are insane bastards Gunther... We can't let people like that run the world."

Gunter nodded. He knew the man was right, but it seemed to him after the day's events the balance might have already tipped too far.

The truck continued down the road, the going was noticeably smoother than it had been earlier, but hardly comfortable as the Opel crashed its way across the potholes and ridges. As they sank into the valley, there was a slight but welcome warming of the air.

Weiss sat, eyes fixed on the road ahead. In the distance, he could see the trail that the SS staff car left behind, a smudge of road dust drifting up, lifted by the wind and catching the light against the darkening sky. The staff car was carrying more speed than they were, and there seemed to be no desire to offer an escort for the cargo. Kraus and his small team would be at the airfield first. It made no difference, they would have to wait for the truck to catch up in any case, Weiss thought.

The day had met, or rather exceeded, Weiss's sombre expectations. He had been in no doubt the theft of the gold would inevitably end in bloodshed, but the scale of it was a surprise, a shock, even for a man who had witnessed much bloodshed in his life. The grotesque aspects of industrialised military action were, he knew only too well, part of the modern soldier's life. As a young man of 22 years, Weiss had been at Ypres in 1915, he had seen things from the desolate muddy trenches that still gave him nightmares. He was there, just a fresh faced young officer, when the first mass poison gas attack was launched on the western front. Dusk was just beginning to fall, when from the front of his trenches he saw a strange green cloud rise and roll with the light north-easterly breeze towards the French. In a moment, a slow agonising death had the enemy by the throat. They broke ranks and fled through the gathering darkness of the awful night, he remembered their terrified screams as they fought against panic, running blindly in the gas cloud, until they dropped with their lungs heaving in agony, and the slow poison of suffocation cloaking their dark faces. He watched as hundreds of them fell, and died before his eyes; others lay helpless, froth on their agonised lips, and their bodies racked and vomiting with tearing nausea. He heard later that the French alone suffered over 6000 casualties from that single attack. By contrast, he thought, a few peasants put to a quick death was not so bad... was it... was it?

In the distance Weiss finally caught sight of the airfield; the staff car was already there, parked and waiting. He could see Kraus pacing back and forth impatiently. There were other vehicles and soldiers assembled, and an aircraft, a Junkers JU 52 painted white, which in this snowy region was as close to camouflage as it was possible to achieve. The presence of a German military aircraft in this alien land, might be something that they wished to hide. There were just discrete Luftwaffe markings along the sides, and the obligatory swastikas that were to become a symbol as much hated as feared. Weiss directed the driver to take the truck towards the cargo doors of the Junkers. As the men jumped from the truck, they were joined by other soldiers, and the packing cases were soon loaded onto the transport plane. The Junkers already held a precious cargo the other troops had collected from their own incursions, from somewhere they had found a cache of gold bars. With the latest hoard, the plane was laden to the limit. The pilot examined the load and instructed the men to shift the weight to the centre of the hold for better balance, and to lash the cases down tightly.

SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus watched the proceedings with interest. He was still carrying the Sang Khor Buddha. The pilot, an Austrian by birth, went by the name of Gerhard Steiner. He walked round the aircraft with Horst Stoff, his co-pilot and navigator, inspecting for signs of wear and tear, checking the landing gear and the flying control surfaces and flaps for potential damage. Gerhard was a man in his mid-thirties, stocky built. His craggy pock-marked features gave him a look that suggested his face might have been carved from a chunk of granite.

"Everything OK with you Horst?" he asked, noticing a greyness in his fellow officer's cheeks.

"Probably ate something that disagreed with me." Horst said. "Fact is, I'll be glad when this tour of duty is over... I could use some of my wife's good cooking."

Gerhard laughed.

"Some of her good loving too, I bet my friend."

"That too..."

Horst managed a smile.

"How old is little Liesel now?"

"Nearly four already, can you believe it?"

"Four already... oh, that reminds me, I picked something up for her when I was in Kamalama a few weeks ago. It's just a string puppet that caught my fancy. They make them for the tourist trade these days, dressed in brightly coloured Nepalese national costume. I'll give it to you before we set off... it's just in my kit bag."

"That's very thoughtful Gerhard... I'm sure she'll love it."

The Junkers had been a heavily used work horse for half a decade now, but it had been well maintained and was still in sound airworthy condition. Once they were satisfied that all was well they wandered over towards Obersturmbannführer Kraus. If Gerhard had a concern, it was that the aircraft was in danger of being overloaded. He saluted the SS officer and expressed his concerns.

"We were close to our weight limit before the final truck arrived. This latest cargo might be pushing our luck."

Kraus narrowed his eyes, he had not come this far to see his plunder left behind on the runway.

"Nonsense man, the Junkers is the finest aircraft of its class in the world; you will have no difficulty."

Gerhard knew that there was no point in arguing with an SS officer. He saluted, as if accepting Kraus's assurance, but in reality, he was far from being convinced. Normal protocol would give the captain of a vessel, ship or aircraft, absolute authority over such matters, but the rise of the SS now overrode what was once considered normal. Hauptmann Gerhard Steiner shrugged inwardly and tried to put his concerns out of his mind.

"You wish me to take the statue Obersturmbannführer?"

"What? No Hauptmann."

He seemed reluctant to let go of the Buddha, as if something about it had taken possession of him.

"I shall conduct this safely home myself."

From the east the wind had picked up, and the dark clouds were rolling down the valley as if they had followed the small convoy down from the scene of desolation at the monastery.

"You have your flight plan set?"

"Yes, of course Obersturmbannführer, my concern is having sufficient fuel, especially being a little overloaded. It depends on the weather, if we get a tail wind, things will be easier. It should be straight forward once we cross the pass through the Himalayas.''

"Excellent, then I wish you a good flight."

The enlisted men stood at the edge of the airfield, stamping their feet against the biting cold, just wanting to be dismissed so they could go in search of some food and a hot drink. They watched as the Junkers' cargo doors were closed against the elements. The cargo had not been won cheaply and was deeply stained with the blood of many innocents. They collectively hoped that it would somehow be worth the cost as the Junker's BMW engines were finally churned into life. The engines seemed reluctant to start in the freezing conditions, they coughed with black half-burned fuel escaping the exhausts in sooty clouds, and then one by one they spluttered from a hesitant tick over into a roar of power. Each of the three engines made in excess of 700 horsepower, and the airframe shuddered as the throttles were opened and the plane taxied to the runway. Held against the brakes, the engines were revved in a crescendo of noise and vibration, then slowly, slowly the JU 52 gathered speed as the nine-cylinder radial engines strained against their load. The Junkers was rapidly reaching the end of the strip, still earthbound.

Gerhard, wrapped in his flying jacket, looked across to his navigator, a nervous smile on his face. He had flown heavier loads than this before, but not over the Himalayas, and not in these conditions. Stowed in the cockpit, hanging by its strings was the brightly coloured puppet. Horst had put it on display, partly as a reminder not to forget it, but also, being a rather superstitious man, he felt it might bring them good luck on the flight to Kathmandu. Normally a confident airman, there was something that troubled him about the flight. Maybe it was the uncertain weather, or possibly some perceived bad karma that hung over the cargo.

The Junkers seemed reluctant to let go of the runway, and Gerhard gave the supercharged engines everything they had.

"Come on you bastard, lift, lift!"

He pulled back on his control stick, throttles wide open as the end of the runway came into view.

Kraus watched dispassionately as the nose of the aircraft finally lifted, and the Junkers made a gentle arc across the edge of the plateau and at last found free air beneath its wings. He nodded with satisfaction as the aircraft climbed slowly into the sky and gained speed. After a few minutes it was little more than a droning speck in the distance. The dark rolling clouds seemed to gather around it and it soon fell out of sight. Kraus stood watching the weather draw in as the golden statue sat as his feet. He flicked a flame from his expensive silver lighter and lit a slender cigar. A swirl of snowflakes danced about his head, and he pulled the fur collar of his coat up around his neck. He drew deeply from the cigar and shivered with something possibly more than cold, as the wind flapped at his coat tails.

The course had been set to cross the mountain range at the lowest possible altitude, and even that was pushing the Junkers' ceiling envelope. Gerhard turned the aircraft to the southeast. Once on course, he feathered the throttles to maintain a cruising speed of a little under 140 mph. In principle, there was little to do now, but keep the aircraft trimmed and on heading. In light airs the Junkers was a benevolent aircraft, it could almost fly itself. However, flying over mountainous terrain was never a comfortable proposition as the aircraft would constantly be buffeted by turbulence as the speeding winds rose and fell across the mountain-scape. The weather was also not proving to be at all compliant, and Gerhard found himself busy at the controls. It was impossible to climb high enough to be over the clouds, and the visibility in their darkening shadow was far from perfect. The further they flew, the darker and more menacing the stormy sky grew. They had flown for about two hours when they suddenly encountered a flurry of snow. The wipers struggled to keep the screen clear, and Gerhard's eyes strained against the gloom. Abruptly they entered some severe turbulence, and the plane was tossed about like a bottle on the ocean. With his eyes straining straight ahead, Gunter could see flashes of lightening spearing like jagged fingers across the dark sky. Sweat was beading on his forehead as he fought with the controls.

"What's our heading?" he called to Horst, who was struggling with charts and trying to get an accurate idea of their air speed.

"I'm not sure I can trust the compass... looks as if we've drifted five degrees to the north... if we correct our heading, it will put us right in the middle of the storm."

"Understood, but we don't have the fuel to divert far off course."

"It's up to you Gerhard, but in my opinion, we should consider turning back before it's too late. At the rate we seem to be using fuel, that point of no return will not be far away."

"I was counting on five hours to get to our refuelling stop, but in these conditions that might be difficult. I'm inclined to agree with you, we would get no thanks for turning back Horst."

"It's your decision Hauptmann, we will need to make a commitment one way or another within the next half hour, or the decision will be taken for us."

"I hear you..."

Gerhard felt the muscles of his jaw tighten.

A flurry of snow hit the screen, and the Junkers was shaken by a violent crash of thunder to the port side that rocked the aircraft.

"OK, I'm turning back Horst... better late than dead."

He strained at the controls, but they were unresponsive.

"Christ, I think we're icing up..."

"Lose altitude Gerhard, it's our only chance."

"Yes, yes, I know... I can't see a damned thing... I don't know how much room we have to drop, I don't want to fly into the side of a mountain..."

Nevertheless, he struggled to tip the nose of the Junkers down. The plane was shaking violently, and with a sudden terrifying crash they felt the strapping that was holding the cargo down snap free under the constant buffeting. The weight shifted to the rear of the plane and destroyed what little balance Gerhard was struggling to maintain. He looked across at Horst and met a look of fear in his eyes that mirrored his own.

"Horst... do you know our position?" he shouted over the terrifying howl of the raging storm.

"What?"

"Do you know where we are?" he repeated at the top of his voice.

"I can't be sure, the compass seems to have gone crazy... I don't know how, but we must have crossed the range into Nepal, I just caught a glimpse of Everest to the east."

"That's not possible, not unless the storm has hurled us across the sky."

"I know... I can't explain it... our air speed is off the clock."

There was an unexpected shudder as the nose engine spluttered and then failed, starved of fuel as the carburetion iced up. Gerhard flicked at his array of switches, he tried the starter, tried adjusting the mixture in a panic that had him flailing at the edge of rationality. Then like the final blow, the coup de grace, a huge gust of turbulence slammed against the Junkers frame, and Gerhard was slammed into the control panel and was knocked unconscious. A trail of blood trickled down from his temple and across his jaw. Horst grabbed the controls and fought to stabilise the plane, but it was too late. The Junkers began a slow and inevitable screaming spiral towards the rocky ground as it fell like a wounded bird from the tempestuous sky. For Horst's last few moments the world had become a place of slow motion. He could recognise the inevitability of what was happening, but a transcendent calmness overcame him. He thought of his wife, his daughter... The last thing he saw was the string puppet as it seemed to come to life, dancing in the air as the Junkers spiralled out of control. Both men were killed instantly as the plane tore itself apart along the edge of a ravine. They had made it into Nepal, another couple of hours in the air would have seen them safely to the lowlands of their refuelling stop, but that was not to be. The wreckage was scattered over a wide area. The small pockets of flames that had erupted were soon extinguished, and within a few short hours any trace of the Junkers, and its cargo, were completely hidden by a deepening blanket of snow.
Chapter Four

He walked down Station Road, towards Bishops Way, in the sunlit tranquillity of an early afternoon. It was a lovely late spring day, the vivid daffodils in the park were still in full bloom, and there was an air of optimism as the ravages of the war were starting to fade to distant memory. No longer threatened by the onslaught of the Luftwaffe, the city had rediscovered its former bustling composure. The sky was a blue shimmer feathered with light cloud. Beyond the tang of diesel buses, you could almost detect the fragrance of spring in the air. London was a city that had grown and evolved over the centuries, leaving a complexity of layout that can fool the unwary. Graham Peters was at home in this part of town; he presented himself as a compact, clean-cut, English gentleman, perfectly suited to the changing modern times. He approached the familiar Foxglove Tavern circumspectly. How is it that a confident grown man, can be reduced to nervousness by the prospect of unsettling his sweetheart? The door of the pub opened with a familiar squeal of unoiled hinges.

He was a senior journalist at the London Daily Custodian and had arranged to meet his girlfriend for a lunchtime drink at the Foxglove, which was a prominent landmark of Bishop's Way. There was something he had to tell her, and was uncertain how she might react. The lounge bar was virtually empty when he pushed his way into the ancient watering hole, most of the custom was taking place in the adjoining noisy, smoke-filled saloon bar. That was where he would normally be, among the throng of his journalist colleagues. In deference to his girlfriend Loretta, he had arranged to meet in the slightly more refined atmosphere of the lounge bar. He bought a pint of Bass and for Loretta, whom he expected at any minute, a gin and tonic – slice of lemon, no ice – she had trained him well in her likes and dislikes. He found a table in the corner and turned his chair so that it faced the door. Loretta DeVerre was a post graduate student and tutor at Queen Mary College. An anthropologist, her interest lay in the arcane world of the rise of early hominids. At just twenty-four, she was a full ten years Graham's junior, but they seemed to fit together effortlessly, like interlocking pieces from the same jigsaw puzzle. She had been still only sixteen when the war had ended. Like many children from the city, she and her younger sister had been evacuated. They spent much of the war years in Dorset, cocooned by a caring family who owned a small, but comfortably productive dairy farm. Consequently, she had emerged from the war with a different perspective on things from Graham. They had met just a year ago, at a party, and both instantly felt the spark of electricity for which we all search, but seldom find.

Graham checked his watch, it was not unusual for Loretta to be a little late. She seemed fated to always just miss the bus on the corner of Grove Road and had to wait the ten minutes for the next one. When she finally made her appearance at the door, wearing a bright red beret over her dark curls, Graham's pint was already half gone. She burst through the door and seemed to bring a waft of the fragrant spring air in with her. She peered around the room with her clear, very English blue eyes of pronounced steadiness until she saw him stand.

"Hello darling, sorry I'm late... ooh, is that G and T for me?"

She sat opposite him with a completely disarming smile on her face. She pulled off the beret and shook her curls free.

"And who else would I buy gin for?"

"I'm sure there's a flock of young ladies at the Custodian who would queue up for the opportunity." She took a bite of the lemon slice and her nose wrinkled at the sour acidity.

"Maybe, but I only have eyes for you..."

Loretta seemed to study his face for a moment.

"I wish I could be absolutely sure of that."

"You can dear heart... trust me on the matter, as a matter of fact, I am something of an expert on my own feelings."

Loretta laughed. To Graham who really was in love with her, the sound of her laughter was like music.

"So, you're looking rather pleased with yourself." Graham said.

"Am I? Mm, well there might be a reason for that."

"Don't keep me in suspense..."

"Well, I've had some good news... It was mostly expected, but I got confirmation that my application for funding has been approved. I was told this morning, so I can finally start to make some concrete plans for the research I was telling you about."

"Ah, a dissertation on the evolution of the Amazonian ape man..."

Loretta leaned across the table and jabbed a slender finger into his chest.

"Ouch!"

"You know very well it's nothing like that at all."

"No... so, well done on that little victory... actually, Loretta I have some rather interesting news myself..."

"Go on..." Loretta said as she sipped at her drink.

Graham watched her intently as her eyes closed for an instant with a flutter of long delicate eyelashes.

"The office wants someone to fly out to Nepal and wire back some copy about the Colonel Hunt Everest expedition... seems there's some growing confidence that our chaps might have a decent chance of success."

"Really... Nepal."

Graham could see Loretta's eyes light up at the mention of the exotic country that for most westerners balanced somewhere between unheard of and a fanciful Shangri-La land of romance novels.

"Now, you almost certainly will not know this darling, but, since they have recently opened the country up to foreigners, there has been some fascinating fossil evidence unearthed."

"Has there indeed?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

Loretta took another lingering taste of her drink. While she allowed time for the implications of her words to sink in. It didn't take Graham long to connect the dots: Funding available... anthropology... fossil evidence... Nepal. _She wants to come with me._

"But I thought you were going to be tied up in covering the Coronation." Loretta continued, "It's only a few weeks away now."

"Ah well, dear heart, you have hit the nail on the proverbial. Fact is, old man Bambridge..."

"That's your editor?"

"Yes, he is... well, he asked me to find someone to fill that role if I want take advantage of the opportunity."

"And you do want to take advantage of the opportunity?"

"Of course, I do... not that I won't miss you dreadfully while I'm away."

"Mm, if you say so... I do seem to remember you grumbling about the unwanted distraction the Coronation would bring from covering actual news. Anyone would think you were an anti-monarchist."

"No, not necessarily, especially now that we have a young modern Queen on the throne."

"So, what of the Coronation coverage, have you someone in mind?"

"There's a lot of chaps who'd jump at the chance, and I really can't pretend to be too upset about losing that bun fight dear heart, all that pageantry and faux gaiety is a bit much for me."

"Well, I can sympathise with your point of view on the Royal extravaganza... but, you'd really rather dash away and hang off the edge of a mountain in the middle of nowhere?"

There was a mischievous smile, not quite fully blossomed on her lips.

"I won't be going anywhere near any precipitous mountain edges."

"Well, that's a relief Graham... I was wondering... would there be room for me to hide away in your suitcase?"

Graham laughed, and then deflected the conversation away from where he could see it edging with the offer of a refill.

"Ready for another?" he said as he picked up her glass.

"I shouldn't... I have a group of undergrads to tutor this afternoon."

"Poor you. Well?"

"Go on then, but, just a teeny one, more tonic than gin."

Graham returned with more drinks and a couple of bags of Smith's Crisps, complete with little blue paper twists of salt.

Loretta attacked her potato crisps with enthusiasm. She had missed breakfast and had rather hoped that Graham might have offered her a more substantial lunch.

"Graham..." she said through a crumbling mouthful, "actually, I wasn't altogether joking..."

Loretta stroked her finger round the rim of her glass and batted her eyelashes – it was an entirely unintentional affectation, but it never failed to catch her lover's attention.

"You know... about coming with you."

"No, I feared as much... look this would not be a holiday, I'd be busy ferrying around the country, keeping up to date with the progress. The office will be expecting a progress report every day. They intend to build up interest over the weeks until, with any luck, there will be a climax as the summit is broached. In that case, I would need to write a substantial follow up piece."

"So, what happens if the expedition fails?"

"Well, we British are rather good at heroic failures, you only have to look at the Scott South Pole disaster. Those men were heralded as national heroes."

"And quite rightly."

"I agree, but, you get my point, not that I want it for an instant. But a tragedy sells more copy than a good news story, any day."

"You're a terrible cynic darling."

"I know."

"So, you'd cobble something together about the heroic, but tragic failure to quite reach the top against the unassailable Mount Everest."

"Exactly."

"Yes, I can see you have all the angles covered... but, if I were to come along, while you are doing your journalism magic, I could visit some of the sites that have been unearthed in the Himalayan foothills... it could be a fantastic opportunity for me to gather material for my thesis."

"I understand your enthusiasm dear heart, but the landscape is quite rugged out there. I know world travel is easier than it's ever been these days, but getting to Nepal is an arduous four-day flight. Then there would be a lot of seriously difficult overland travel involved, and the hotel accommodation, if any is available, is far from what you are used to."

"So, as a feeble little woman you think it would be all too much for me..."

Her words were a trap for Graham and he stumbled straight in.

"I didn't exactly say that... but, well, I suppose, yes."

"Let me get this right... you think that because I'm just a frail and helpless woman, I would faint away at the first sign of hardship?"

"Now you are putting words in my mouth... it's just that there are bound to be dangers, and I would not want to see you put in harm's way."

"But, you are happy to put yourself in harm's way, without considering how I might feel about that? I don't believe you Graham... I thought you were a modern man. This is 1953, not 1853. I don't know if you had noticed, but we women were finally emancipated by the war, and we are never going back into our little crinoline boxes again."

"I know, I know... I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"No, no, don't worry, I see how things are. You know Graham, I really thought we had something special, I thought of all the men in London, you were the one who really did understand me. Maybe... just maybe, we should re-evaluate our relationship... I never took you for a dinosaur before."

"I'm not a dinosaur... please Loretta..."

Loretta stood, and in a possibly overplayed demonstration of indignation, walked to the door before briefly returning to snatch up her packet of crisps, as well as Graham's unopened packet. With chin lifted, she swung through the door back into the spring afternoon, leaving her second drink untasted, and the table scattered with the crumbs of her meagre lunch.

Graham sat at his desk staring into space. His position at the Custodian had afforded him the luxury of a small office of his own, even so, he was never quite alone as two of the office walls were sheets of plate glass from floor to ceiling. The distracting metallic clatter of typewriters from the adjoining newsroom constantly penetrated his space, and his complete lack of privacy was always assured. His office window which he had flung open to let in the spring air, overlooked Victoria Park, now restored from its wartime use, it once more offered a little verdant tranquillity. In moments of reflection, he liked to look out with a dispassionate eye on the world and allow a little perspective to settle on his own trivial worries. In the hazy distance, through narrowed lids, he could just make out a few ant-like souls taking a late sandwich lunch by the bandstand. His eyes lost their focus among the distant foliage as his thoughts turned again to Loretta.

He cared deeply for her and knew only too well that she had a mind of her own. She was forging a career of her own, and he had nothing but respect for that. Even so, he was old fashioned enough to be challenged by the expectations of modern women. He had grown up in a time when women, certainly middle-class women, were still mostly tied to their traditional role as home makers. _Was it so wrong to want to protect her from the hazards of intrepid overseas travelling,_ he asked himself. _Or did his motives lay elsewhere?_

No matter what his feelings for the young woman were, he had no intention of passing up on the opportunity of visiting Nepal. What had been offered to him was a true 'Boy's Own' adventure, a last chance to do something personally challenging, before the creep of middle age slowed him into complacency. He had seen it happen to his colleagues, and he was not ready for that yet.

Many of his generation had seen enough 'adventures' in recent years to last them a lifetime, but Graham Peters, fluent in German, had spent his war in Buckinghamshire locked away in a windowless room, engaged in transcribing intercepted and un-coded German signals into meaningful English. When the war was finally over, he emerged from his seclusion, exultant but pale and mentally exhausted. The chance to see the world, something that he felt he had missed out on, was something he could not turn away from now.

Suddenly making up his mind, he threw open his door and crossed the newsroom to where an elder colleague was slumped at his desk. Ralph Johnson had once been a top investigative journalist, but now the inevitable creep of time had cast a grey shadow on his hair and dulled the once vibrant edge of his inquisitiveness.

"Johnson old man, I have a proposition for you..."

Johnson looked up from his notepad on which he had been idly doodling.

"Oh, it's you Peters... a proposition you say... do tell."

He leaned back on his chair and lit a cigarette, the third of the afternoon.

"I'm truly intrigued..." he said exhaling a plume of smoke up to the dingy ceiling.

Johnson was old school... Eton to be exact – he had, and occasionally still wore, the tie to prove it. He was still respected by his colleagues, despite the clear evidence of his slow decline. Just a little too old to be on active service in the last war, it was rumoured that he had seen more than his fair share of action during the 'first lot'. He never talked about the Great War, and it was considered bad form to ask direct questions on such matters. Graham sat on the edge of Johnson's desk with the air of someone doling out Christmas presents.

"Well, you know that my name has been pencilled in to run the Coronation coverage."

"Yes, the fact did not escape my notice. Matter of fact old boy, I was hoping that plum might have fallen my way... last chance to make a splash before time's winged chariot... and all that."

"In that case, you may find what I have to say to be rather welcome."

"Go on then, spill the beans, you have managed to attract my full attention."

"You've heard of the Royal Geographic Society's Everest expedition?"

"Everest expedition... dare say, there's something hiding at the back of my mind about it. Something to do with Eric Shipton, isn't it?"

"You are certainly on the right track old man, Shipton has been popping up and down the mountain since the thirties, he led the '51 reconnaissance expedition to set the way for the latest attempt... Anyway, there's growing optimism among some of our chaps they may well reach the summit this summer. Everest, as the highest mountain in the world, would be a feather in our cap, if we get to stick the Union Jack on her. It's likely to become a rather news worthy event."

"And how does this impact on me?"

"In an indirect manner... The old man asked me if I'd like to make the trek out to Nepal and cover the story."

"And you are inclined to say yes?"

"It's an opportunity that I would regret for the rest of my life, if I let it pass by... but, it's contingent on me finding a safe pair of hands to take care of the Coronation... that's where you come in Johnson, you are top of my list, and the job is yours, if you want it... I'm sure you can farm off your other commitments among the juniors."

"This sounds like a gift from the gods Peters... thanks for thinking of me old man."

"I couldn't think of a more deserving fellow."

The conversation had been overheard and there was a cheer and a round of applause from the news room.

"Well done Johnson, you deserve this."

Johnson rose to his feet and made a small bow of acknowledgement, before reaching out to Lydia and waltzing her a few impromptu steps round the news room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it seems there's life in the old dog yet... first round is on me at Foxglove this evening."

Graham was already back in his office talking on the telephone.

"So, flight BA 702... Lockheed Constellation right, yes, London to Zurich, then Beirut with a night stopover... Karachi then Delhi... you can get me a connecting flight to Kathmandu... Tribhuvan International... A grass runway, really... Yes, it will be just a single, a single return."

His gaze drifted out of his window for a moment as he thought of Loretta... It might be nice to have some company after all, but she had not replied to the messages he had left for her.

"What's that? Yes, yes, I'll send someone down to your offices before close of business today with a cheque. Thank you so much for your assistance."
Chapter Five

In the days before the Coronation, Ralph Johnson spent many quiet hours in the cloistered atmosphere of the Westminster reference library on St Martins Street. He felt that the opportunity to cover this rather momentous event would be his last chance to write something substantial for the Custodian, and he wanted to immerse himself in as much relevant background information as possible. He sat in the hushed rooms scribbling, with his well-worn fountain pen. He made copious notes, mostly historical facts that would be used to fill out a descent preamble to the actual events of the day.

His wife Elsie was fussing over him at breakfast again, it was really nothing more than her habitual approach to wifedom. In truth, he rather welcomed his wife's motherly attention, though he would be disinclined to admit so to anyone... even Elsie. They never quarrelled, but somehow over the years their lives had drifted apart. He with his job and the garden, she with her household duties and her women's institute and charity work. They were like two trains running on parallel rails, always present, always in sight of each other, but never quite making any significant contact.

From the breakfast table, Johnson had a view through the French windows that looked out onto a wedge of meticulously unkempt lawn and a restless stand of flowering cherries. The spring had come and gone, the cherry blossoms fallen, but now the first flush of summer held the garden in its honeyed embrace. He wondered how many more summer days were left to him. Those glorious languid days, dozing in his garden deckchair with the somnolent drone of the cricket commentary from the wireless.

It came as something of a shock to him, to suddenly realise that far from the intrepid reporter that he had always considered himself, the greater part of his life had always been given over to the simple search for shelter, for comfort, for cosiness even. His self-image had been nothing more than a delusion of youth, carried with him to middle age until it was no longer supportable. To go off to Everest for example, like Peters and face a wholly unknown world, he now found to be something to be shied away from, something almost deplorable. What he wanted, what he had always really wanted, was to be concealed in some place of warmth, hidden from the caustic gaze of his fellow men. To hide behind the anonymous fluency of his words.

"I think you might be coming down with something Ralph, I don't like the sound of your chest one bit."

Johnson smiled up at his wife from the bacon rind, the unfinished fried slice of bread and the sticky yellow remains of his fried egg. Fresh eggs were still something to be appreciated after the deprivations of the war years. He drained his cup of strong sweet tea.

"I'm perfectly fine Elsie, don't fuss."

"Wear your scarf when you go out Ralph... that old library building can be a draughty place, and you are not getting any younger."

"None of us are dear, but I'm still in the prime of my life... I won't be succumbing to any vile infection before my Coronation piece is finished, I can assure you of that."

He watched her smile at him, in that infinitely patient way she had. He had the sudden urge to tell her how much she meant to him, even after all these years, but some irrational diffidence held him back.

"Elsie..."

"Yes, dear?"

"No, it's nothing old girl..."

He patted her hand and stood from the table, duty called.

Seated in the remarkably draught free library an hour or so later, he made further copious notes which would eventually be whittled down to a concise introduction to his Coronation article:

The crowning of the Sovereign is an ancient ceremony, rich in religious significance... historic associations and pageantry... For the last 900 years, it has taken place at Westminster Abbey as the royal church for the Palace of Westminster... Her Majesty will be the thirty-ninth Sovereign to be crowned at Westminster Abbey...

The Coronation crown has two large pearls that are thought to have once been earrings worn by Elizabeth I...

He paused for a moment, if he were honest, all this bumph about history had little interest for him, and he wondered if the readership of the Custodian might be put off by too much rambling detail. He would talk it over with Elsie, who had an uncanny way of predicting what would be appropriate.

He jotted down another quick note:

_The Queen who succeeded to the Throne on the 6th February 1952, on the death of King George VI, was in Kenya at the time and became the first Sovereign in over 200 years to accede to the throne while abroad..._ Feeling that he had finally done enough, he collected his belongings and made his leisurely way towards the exit.

He walked along St Martins, then up past the barrow boys with their fruit and vegetable stalls:

"Get your Guernsey toms, one and nine a pound... bunch of daffs for the wife Guv'?"

Johnson walked past, but thought that Elsie might have appreciated the gesture, it was too late now, and his mind drifted to considering how the innovative television coverage might impact on the circulation numbers. The BBC's television coverage of the Coronation was to be something of a milestone in its own right and for many would be the first event that they had seen on television. Johnson could see that television was already becoming a popular entertainment medium but doubted that it posed any sort of threat to the serious print media, not in the long run. He could, however, clearly see the inevitable demise of the cinema in its flickering cathode ray screen. Johnson had no television set himself, preferring the undemanding and comforting presence of the wireless.

His pace had been brisk as he made his way to catch the bus, and Johnson suddenly felt a slight tightening in his chest. He thought for an instant of hailing a black cab, but the stop was already in view, just at the top of the rise. Arriving somewhat breathlessly, he eased himself into one of the wooden-rail seats which the bus stop provided. It would only take a moment to get his wind back. He lit a cigarette, it always seemed to help. His moments of sudden breathlessness were becoming more frequent just lately. Maybe Elsie was right after all, if it was a virus he would steel himself over the next couple of days of excitement. If necessary, he could take to his bed for a few days of recuperation when the Coronation was over.

He closed his eyes and the sound of music playing, drifting from some out of sight open window, filled his ears. It was a familiar melody, and it suddenly hurled him back across the decades. He was inside the Berkeley Fish and Chip shop with Elsie, the same song must have been playing inside on their wireless. It was a time before jukeboxes... A gentler time, somehow. They walked out from the steamy atmosphere of the chip shop, into the chill of a clear night, each clutching their parcels of vinegar drenched chips, still too hot to eat. They walked together leaning on each other for reassurance. He found it quite remarkable, the clarity with which it all came back to him. It had been after the cinema, some intense and tragic romance; the details and actors were lost to him now. He was still young back then, but the evening was seared into his memory by the first stolen kiss that he and Elsie had shared, in the darkness of the Odeon cinema.

Coming out of the chip shop, they had rested under a halo of gas light that lay fallen at their feet. Elsie was wearing the green coat she had kept for years, even after they were married. She wore a little matching hat, he remembered her pulling off her gloves and stuffing them into a pocket so that she could eat her chips. Now and then a breeze would ruffle at the newspaper wrapping as they dipped into their supper. He remembered there being hardly anyone else around, some boys, or young men, rather, drifted past, but he and Elsie were shyly absorbed, remembering the kiss and wondering when it might happen again...

He was falling in love with Elsie, already had fallen, the thing was already done. He had that sense of anxious euphoria, of helpless toppling into a world where he would no longer be alone. A world in which he was, by some defect of personality, destined to accept more love than he could show in return. After all these years, his feelings for Elsie had hardly changed, but somehow, he could never really tell her what she meant to him.

Drawn back to the present by the swirling dusty arrival of his bus, he realised with a little tremor of excitement that by this time tomorrow the Coronation would be in full swing...

The gods had been kind, the second of June had dawned fine, and nothing seemed set to mar the pageantry, or ruffle the Queen's composure as she dedicated her life to her noblesse oblige and was crowned monarch of the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Pakistan and Ceylon. The Empire had certainly shrunk since the war, but the British Commonwealth still spanned the globe and was still enthusiastically loyal to their young Queen.

Myles Green had been appointed as official coronation photographer for the Custodian _._ He and Johnson joined the other 2000 journalists and 500 photographers, drawn from ninety-two nations that lined the streets as the Queen's procession made its way from Buckingham Palace, towards Westminster Abbey. Crowds of people stood for hours, cheering and waving flags. Johnson found himself elbowing for room as he furiously filled his notebook with impressions of the day. _On her way to the Coronation, Her Majesty wore the George IV State Diadem with its national symbols of roses, shamrocks and thistles. Worth a fortune, it held 1,333 diamonds and 169 pearls._

The Sovereign's procession was some 250 strong, with traditional representatives from Crown, Church and State. It included Church leaders, Commonwealth Prime Ministers, members of the Royal Household, civil and military leaders and the Yeoman of the Guard. What everyone wanted to see was the breath-taking and rarely used Gold State Coach, as it was elegantly pulled by eight magnificent grey geldings.

Myles Green was darting about, taking photographs and constantly looking for the ideal shot. He and Johnson slipped under the rope to get a better view. An authoritarian voice called out to them:

"Oi, you gentlemen, get back behind the barrier."

Johnson looked up, he was not going to let an officious Bobby spoil his coverage of the momentous spectacle.

"It's alright officer we are accredited press."

He flashed his press card.

"Very well sir, mind 'ow you go."

The enthusiasm of the day had taken hold of Johnson, he tapped his colleague on the shoulder:

"Myles... look, run down there a little and get a shot of the carriage as it approaches."

Myles moved ahead and took a couple of steps out into the street. He went down onto one knee, clicking furiously on his camera as the crowd surged forward, eager to miss nothing. The guardsman's horses passed dangerously close, and the photographer pulled back to the side of the road near the ropes. Just as he raised his camera the royal carriage passed, and the young Queen Elizabeth turned and waved.

"Tell me you got that shot, or you'll be taking school photos for the rest of your life," Johnson laughed.

"Oh, I got it all right... that one might just make the front page tonight... we'll see what Bambridge thinks."

"Well done you little whipper-snapper."

The policeman's voice could be heard again over the roar of the crowd:

"Back on the other side of the ropes if you wouldn't mind, sir."

Myles waved an acknowledgement and edged back to the rope cordon. Both he and Johnson had mile-wide smiles on their faces. Johnson had not felt so vibrantly alive for years, he felt that his efforts today might just reignite his flagging career.

A steep-slanted flash of sunlight fell across his eyes, blinding him for a moment. He seemed suddenly drawn out of the crowd, as if he could see them from above, as the people strained to catch a glimpse of the Queen. Caught in a sudden instant of silent reflection, he noticed a fluttering of pigeons as they wheeled just above the cheering faces, disturbed by the inexplicable appearance of so many people.

"We should make a move to the Abbey, Myles. Get our seats before the big wigs arrive," he said.

"I'm way ahead of you Johnson, I need to take my allotted place above the organ pipes... should get some good shots from up there."

"Very well, I'll see you back at the news room Myles... best of luck."

The Queen's Coronation service began at 11.15 a.m. and lasted almost three hours, concluding at 2.00 p.m. Johnson needed to get back to the office, he had a profusion of notes, far too many really, and he had to sort them into a semblance of order before attacking the first terrifying blank sheet with keys of his trusty Imperial typewriter. Bursting out into the afternoon sun, the crowd was still in full voice as the people waited expectantly for their newly crowned Queen to emerge from the Abbey. Johnson pushed through the throng and dived down a side street hailing a taxi. His shortness of breath was suddenly back, and with it a slightly painful tightness across his chest. _Just a touch of indigestion_ he told himself, as he sank into the seclusion of the black cab.

Arriving back at the news room, he found that Myles' photographs had already been developed and proofs were on display on the wall board. Johnson studied the photographs for a few moments. Myles had captured the Queen's wave as she held an enchanting smile on her face.

"Brilliant work Myles... now I need some space to get all this..." he waved his spiral bound reporter's notebook in the air "... into some sort of order."

Tie and jacket removed, he rolled his sleeves and sat at his desk. Feeding a sheet through the rollers, he stared for a moment at the blankness that he was expected to fill. Then, as if guided by some sublime hand, he started furiously typing quite oblivious to the bustle going on around him. He soon started to fill the pages:

At the opening of today's thousand-year-old rite, the Archbishop of Canterbury presented Queen Elizabeth to the people as our "undoubted Queen", that is by hereditary right. Three hours later she went forth from the Abbey, amid the greatest rejoicing, a crowned and consecrated Queen. No such delight has hailed a Sovereign's Coronation before.

Johnson paused for a moment to read what he had written. Lighting a cigarette, he leafed through a paragraph he had jotted down earlier and copied it into his text.

It is easy to fall into hyperbole at such moments of mass emotion as this, but there is no exaggeration here. Others of our Queens, Elizabeth I and Victoria, for example, have swayed the hearts of their people after a time, but Elizabeth II captured them from the start. She has done it not merely in virtue of her youth and grace, but because she joins to these qualities the high seriousness we have come to associate with the House of Windsor.

"Yes, that's hit the spot..." he muttered to himself, cigarette wobbling in his lips.

He threaded a new sheet of paper and launched himself at the keys.

The Coronation Bouquet was presented to The Queen by the Worshipful Company of Gardeners to take with her on the drive to Westminster Abbey. The all-white bouquet comprised orchids and lilies-of-the-valley from England, stephanotis from Scotland, and carnations from Northern Ireland and the Isle of Man, with additional orchids from Wales...

The words now flowed easily:

The Duke of Edinburgh wore full-dress naval uniform for the journey to and from the Abbey. While in the Abbey, he wore a coronet and his Duke's robe over his uniform...

On and on he typed, painting a vivid word picture of the day's events.

The Queen's Coronation dress was made by Mr Norman Hartnell. The dress was made of white satin embroidered with the emblems of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth. It had short sleeves with a full, flaring skirt...

The somewhat portly figure of the editor made his appearance in the news room, fresh from his anonymity among the jubilant crowds.

"How's it coming Johnson?" he said, while at the same time wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

"Just fine... I could do without the distraction," he looked up. "Oh, sorry sir, I didn't realise it was you."

Bambridge laughed.

"That's all right Ralph, this is no day for news room formality... I won't hold you up."

"I've got one eye on the typewriter keys and another on the wall clock... don't worry, I won't miss the deadline."

As he spoke, another twinge of indigestion came from nowhere. He looked up from the keys and saw the office girl hovering in excited inaction.

"Lydia... dearest, could you find time to get an old man a glass of water?"

"Coming up Mr Johnson, happy to be of service... I say, are you feeling all right, you look dreadfully pale."

"I think it's all the excitement... given me a touch of wind... nothing to worry about."

Johnson's face was covered in a sheen of sweat. He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief, freshly laundered by Elsie. He could still smell the fragrance of Persil. Rolling his head, he eased the tension from his shoulders, and then lit another cigarette as Lydia rushed back with a glass of water.

"You are a veritable angel... thank you, dear girl."

He gulped the cold clear water and felt much revived. He was on the last lap now, and with forty years of practice behind them, his fingers flashed across the Imperial's keys in a blur of fluency:

The Queen was crowned in St Edward's Chair, made in 1300 for Edward I and used at every Coronation since that time...

It was primarily a religious ceremony and as such was conducted with exquisite fluency by the head of the Church of England the Arch Bishop of Canterbury...

The editor was hovering close again, he rested a hand on Johnson's shoulder.

"Don't want to rush you old man, but you have five minutes..."

"Just the last para..."

As the Queen and her entourage exited the Abbey, she was greeted by a deafening roar from the joyous crowd. If one thing can be certain on this momentous day, it is that the British Monarchy is set to reign in splendid dignity for another thousand years.

God save our beloved Queen.

He pulled the final sheet from the typewriter and gathered it together with the others.

"Go easy on the blue pencil Bambridge... my heart and soul went into this."

The editor took the papers and where he stood, he read what Johnson had written.

"Good god man, this is your finest work ever... I'll not be changing a single word... Lydia, get this down to typesetting... and Lydia, run girl, run."

Looking exultant even through his sweaty grey pallor, Johnson called after Lydia:

"Could you bring me a proof as soon as it's off the press, I'd rather like to see it printed up with the photographs..." his voice had taken on a sudden frailness.

Johnson looked up into Bambridge's face. He felt as if steel bands were being tightened across his chest. The pain ran down his left arm and up into his jaw, even so, he managed to smile at his editor. For the first time Bambridge noticed how unwell Johnson looked.

"Are you alright old man?"

He crouched down by Johnson's desk, his hand resting on the ailing man's arm.

"Probably not..." Johnson said.

All day he had been unwilling to accept the preposterous thought that it was his heart. If he had called for help earlier, things may have been different, but Ralph Johnson had been on a mission that no force on earth could deflect him from.

"Do me a favour, will you Bambridge... tell my wife, tell Elsie, not to worry... and will you tell her that I love her."

He clutched at his chest as a sudden pain, an order of magnitude more severe seared across it, his eyes glazed. The day's efforts had drained his energy, and he had no physical resources left.

Before the urgent ringing of the ambulance's bell could be heard outside the prestigious offices of the Custodian, Johnson had passed from this life into an eternal summer caressed by the thwack of leather on willow...

When Elsie heard the news, she went to her room and fumbled one of her husband's old suits. Hopelessly unfashionable and smelling of mothballs. It no longer fitted him around the waist and was too tight under the arms, but bulged with memories in every pocket, she sniffed at the fabric. Then she brought a damp sponge and dabbed and dabbed at an old tea stain on the lapel as the tears fell down her cheeks.

Johnson never did get to see his award-wining final piece of journalism in print. Nor did he get to hear the news the young Queen had received earlier in the day:

Message to the Queen:

Mount Everest has been conquered.

E.P. Hillary, a New Zealand member of the ninth expedition, reached the summit at 29,002 feet with the Sherpa Tenzing Norgay on Friday May 29.
Chapter Six

Nestled in a gentle hollow, between the hillside pine forest and the green valley slopes, huddled a scattering of dwellings and grazing goats that marked the Nepalese village of Pashmu. A breath-taking view stretched out before the residents. Exposed rock faces were littered with pine trees. Sloping towards the valley, many farming fields seemed to have been exquisitely carved into the hillsides. Following the winding road that cut through the landscape, the eye was led up to the horizon that faded to a soft purple as the distant mountains met the pale morning sky.

This magnificent landscape, however, was not the reason that the two entrepreneurial British men had made the arduous journey from Kathmandu. Their interest lay in the local hand-woven textiles Pashmu was famous for. The fabrics made in the slow traditional way on simple hand operated looms, would fetch a considerable sum of money back in the west where, with growing affluence, a taste for such indulgent collections was starting to develop. Already, there was a strong market among the well-heeled for the Yak wool blankets or the fine cashmere shawls, or even the hemp and nettle fibre fabrics, dyed in the vibrant colours that the Nepalese revelled in.

This was their second expedition to Nepal, this time they had ventured beyond the bustle and clamour of Kathmandu in search of a supply of such authentic hand crafted textiles. In the distance as the sun rose in the sky, they could see the shimmering line of the Himalayas pushed up from the valleys by the collision of continents. Magnificent in its own right, was the tallest peak. Known to the Tibetans as the 'Goddess Mother of the Snows', a gateway to the heavens and called by the Nepalese Sagar-Matha, Everest sat on the border between Nepal and Tibet. It rose up to a height where the air was so rarefied that men could hardly draw breath. On this early morning, its summit was shrouded by a haze of cloud, white against the azure summer sky. In the next distant valley, a good day's march away, nestled the settlement of Jiri, it had been set up as an agricultural development centre by Swiss Government Aid in 1938. Jiri was destined to become known as the gateway to Mt. Everest.

Jack and his colleague Ernest, had stumbled upon the most courteous and helpful of men when they first arrived at Pashmu, he went by the name of Bhuwan. It had been a fortunate encounter, Bhuwan a native of the village, had been in the British Army's Royal Gurkha Rifles and was familiar with the peculiarities of westerners. His excellent command of English proved to be of considerable assistance to the two textile agents when negotiating their trade deals. On retiring from the army, Bhuwan had taken his modest pension and established an unassuming little tea-house or Bhatti, in his home village. It was here, that Ernest Pollock and his business colleague Jack Thomas, known to his close friends as Ginger – something about the colour of his hair – had lodged for the past week. They now sat under the gaze of the blue sky, finishing their late breakfast.

Already warm, even though the low morning sun behind the fragrant pines still cast long shadows across the terrace, the two foreigners breakfasted at an open-air table. It was a meal as close to a typical English breakfast as their location and their host's kitchen would allow. That is to say, it bore scant similarity to what they would have eaten at home, but what Bhuwan was able to provide the travellers was more than adequate in both quantity and quality.

The two men watched as the vibrant flags and bunting flew in celebration of one of the many religious festival days that the villagers observed. They had heard the distant rise and fall of their music for some time now, as it competed with the rush of the wind in the trees. Across the rise of the hill, they could finally see the procession as it edged closer, a colourful host of people in bright national costume dancing down the rocky pathway. The two agents stood as the procession passed them. Their western dress clearly marked them as foreigners, but the Nepalese are by nature friendly and trusting people, and they waved happily as they passed.

As the two Englishmen took their seats again, Bhuwan emerged from his time worn premises.

"Gentlemen, the bus from Kathmandu was here last evening. I took the opportunity to acquire a copy of an English newspaper for you."

He presented it as if he were making an offering to a deity.

Ginger, a tall vigorous man with a strongly defined jaw line, accepted the paper with obvious satisfaction. He had been away from England for almost five months, and news of home was hard to come by.

"That's awfully good of you Bhuwan, I insist that you add the cost of this to our bill."

"Indeed not, sir, it is my privilege to bring you news of good old Blighty."

Bhuwan's time in the army had left him feeling as if Britain were a second home to him, even though he had never set foot beyond the Asian continent. Ernest rose from his chair, he was slightly shorter than his colleague and carried a few more years, which showed in a slight silvering across his temples, and a rather less than slight thickening of his waist line. He slapped the Nepali across the shoulders with an affectionate familiarity, the sun flashing on his spectacles.

"You are a true gentleman Bhuwan," he said "your kindness towards us will not go unrewarded." Bhuwan bowed slightly and withdrew with a feeling of satisfaction, which his natural modesty prevented from spilling over into anything remotely approaching smugness.

"It's hard to imagine that this was printed in London; the place seems so far away from this isolated place that it's becoming hard to imagine it exists outside my memories."

"Well, if you want evidence of London's continued existence, there it is in your hands... Which paper is it Ginger?"

"The Custodian."

"Ah, good... and the date?"

"Let me see... ah, June the 4th, that makes it less than two weeks old."

"Well, that in itself is rather remarkable, must have come via air through Delhi."

"Probably..." Ginger agreed, as he scanned the headline.

In large font and bold print, it was not something that could be readily overlooked.

"Well, that's something of a coincidence..."

"What's that, old man?"

"The cover story is about Everest... seems our chaps have got to the top."

In an entirely involuntary action, both men shifted their gaze across to the Himalayas.

"So, which one is Everest?"

"I think it's fair to assume, Ernest, that the tallest blighter is Everest."

"Well yes, but the highest peaks are rather shrouded in cloud... never mind... what does the article say?"

"You want me to read it to you?"

Ernest leaned back in his chair, it was a comfortable piece of furniture, despite the upholstery tending towards a snug shabbiness, more an arm chair than a dining chair, and it served its purpose more than adequately. With a heaving sigh of contentment, Ernest eased himself lower into his chair until, with outstretched legs resting on the low wall he was almost supine.

"Why not," he said "it's been a while since anyone has read to me. Now that we have all but concluded our business here, I think I can allow myself a little laziness."

He closed his eyes against the low shafts of yellow sun that winked through the trees. Ginger shook his head at his colleague's lethargy, shrugged and then smoothed the paper out on the table and briefly inspected its pages. It was evident that he was far from the first person to have read this particular copy, annoyingly the cryptic crossword had already been completed.

"So... the by-line is by someone with the name of G J Peters..." Ginger finally said. "It says, and I quote... _Everest conquered by British team."_

He raised his voice somewhat, to emphasise the exaggerated capitalising of the headline, and then continued in a more normal tone.

" _News has reached the world that on May the 29th at 11.30 a.m. local time Sherpa Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary stood on the summit of the highest mountain on Earth_."

"Well, that's quite remarkable Ginger."

"Yes... this is quite a rambling article, shall I continue?"

"Please do, you can't expect me to read it myself with my eyes closed old man."

Ginger ruffled the pages, to emphasize the moment.

"All right here goes:

The 1953 British expedition, under the military-style leadership of Sir John Hunt, was massive in the extreme, but in an oddly bottom-heavy way: 350 porters, 20 Sherpas, and tons of supplies to support a vanguard of only ten climbers. "Our climbers were all chosen as potential summiteers," recalled George Band who was one of the party. "The basic plan was for two summit attempts, each by a pair of climbers, with a possible third assault if necessary."

"Looks as if they were pretty determined to throw everything at it." Ernest interjected without opening his eyes.

"Yes, it does rather... _By the spring of 1953, the ascent of the world's highest mountain was beginning to seem inevitable. First attempted in 1921 by the British, Everest had repulsed at least ten major expeditions and two lunatic solo attempts. With the 1950 discovery of a southern approach to the mountain in newly opened Nepal, and the first ascent of the treacherous Khumbu Icefall the route to the summit had been identified._

At first it seemed the Swiss would claim the prize. In 1952 a strong Swiss team that included legendary alpinist Raymond Lambert had pioneered the route up the steep Lhotse Face and reached the South Col. From that high, broad saddle, Lambert and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay then pushed all the way to 28,210 feet on the southeast ridge before turning back – probably as high as anyone had ever stood on Earth."

"Sounds as if we were nearly pipped at the post by the Swiss... never took those chaps to be adventurers, all cuckoo clocks and chocolate."

"You'd be surprised... shall I continue?" Ginger asked as he turned the page.

"Carrying 10,000 lb of baggage the party set out from the Nepalese base at Kathmandu on March 10 and trekked 170 miles to their headquarters at Nanche Bazar. They arrived on March 25. Then came a period of training and trying out the equipment. Nanche Bazar lies at 13,000 feet and the party made trial climbs up to 19,000 feet."

"I suppose transport was a problem, but I had no idea that they would have walked all the way from Kathmandu; seems as if those chaps were gluttons for punishment."

"Well, it wouldn't be my idea of a good time... so... _Colonel Hunt eventually established a camp on the South Col, within four thousand feet of the top. The final camp being set up on the South Col at 27,500 feet - 1,500 feet from the top. It was to be a bivouac camp from which the picked pair of climbers would cover the last gruelling stretch."_

"I'm not sure if those chaps were heroes or madmen."

"A touch of both, I suspect... _The key to Everest was the special oxygen equipment, without which no expedition ever tried to climb the last few thousand feet against severe winds in rarefied air. The British party wore special clothing including an outer suit of cotton windproof material, a smock with protective hood and trousers double-lined with nylon, two feather-weight jerseys and one heavy pullover, a special type of climbing boot with no nails, close-fitting silk gloves, and an outer gauntlet of windproof cotton..._ Shall I go on?"

"Yes, please do old man, this sounds like extracts from an adventure novel..." Ginger cleared his throat and prepared for the final push to reach the summit of G J Peter's article.

_"Now the British were determined to bring every possible advantage to their spring 1953 offensive—including hiring Tenzing, 38, as their lead Sherpa. Earlier British expeditions, though impressive in their accomplishments, were often charmingly informal in style. Hunt's intricately planned assault, on the other hand, was all business..._ I'll skip the next bit it's rather too full of facts and figures..."

Ginger scanned down the page a little way.

"Ah, here we go, this is more interesting: _Mr E. P. Hillary, aged 34, is a beekeeper from New Zealand..._ never would have expected that... _"_

"Maybe they keep their bees up mountains in New Zealand." Ernest interjected, proving that his attention was still focussed on Ginger's voice.

"I think that is quite unlikely, but I never took rummaging about in the bowels of a beehive to be a particularly safe occupation"

"No, nasty blighters those bee chaps, got stung by one when I was a lad, my face swelled up to the size of a football."

"And when are you expecting the swelling to go down?"

"Ha, ha, very funny... well, go on, read more about this intrepid bee keeper."

Ginger continued with a constrained chuckle in his voice.

"Let me see... oh yes... _He served in the Royal New Zealand Air Force during the war and started climbing in the New Zealand Alps. He was an originator of winter ski mountaineering in his own country. A strong contender for one of the summit slots. It was his fourth Himalayan expedition in just over two years and he was at the peak of fitness. The heavily glaciated peaks of his native New Zealand had proved a perfect training ground for the Himalayas. Hillary earned respect early in the expedition by leading the team that forced a route through the treacherous Khumbu Icefall. "A sleeves-rolled-up, get-things-done man," his team members called him. His pairing with Tenzing was hardly an accident. It had always been Hunt's intention, if feasible, to include a Sherpa in one of the summit teams, as a way of recognising their invaluable contribution to the success of these expeditions. Tenzing had already proved he had summit potential by his performance the previous year with Lambert._ _In fact, he had already been at least 4,000 feet higher than any of the rest of the team. Indeed, Tenzing was the most experienced Everest veteran alive, having participated in six previous attempts on the mountain dating all the way back to 1935."_

"Bloody impressive chaps those Sherpas, made of the same stuff as the Gurkhas," Ernest said.

"Have to agree with you there... "Ginger continued: " _Hillary, too, had proved his worth, seeming to grow stronger as the expedition progressed. It seemed that the New Zealander also realised what a powerful team he and Tenzing would make. During the expedition he made a deliberate effort to develop a good partnership with Tenzing. Hillary and Tenzing were the logical pairing for the summit. But, this was not determined at the outset, only during the course of the expedition as it evolved. With an earlier start and from a higher camp than that enjoyed by the Bourdillon and Evans's attempts, Tenzing and Hillary reached the South Summit by 9 a.m. But the difficulties were far from over. After the South Summit, the ridge takes a slight dip before rising abruptly in a rocky spur some 40 feet high just before the true summit. Scraping at the snow with his ice-axe, Hillary chimneyed between the rock pillar and an adjacent ridge of ice to surmount this daunting obstacle. The pair reached the highest point on Earth at 11.30 a.m. on May 29. They spent only about 15 minutes at the summit. Hillary took a photograph of Norgay posing with his ice-axe, but since Norgay had never used a camera, Hillary's ascent went unrecorded. The men shook hands but then Tenzing clasped his partner in his arms and pounded him on the back. Additional photos were taken looking down the mountain, in order to reassure that they had made it to the top and to document that the ascent was not faked. The two had to take care on the descent after discovering that drifting snow had covered their tracks, complicating the task of retracing their steps. The first person they met was Lowe, who had climbed up to meet them with hot soup. The variety of soup went unrecorded. Hillary is reported as saying in a matter of fact greeting: "Well, George, we knocked the bastard off!"_

"Ha... a New Zealander aye... down to earth bunch of chaps, salt of the earth. I had an uncle who went out there before the war... he ended up getting shot at Dunkirk... poor bugger should have stayed put."

"Sorry to hear that... so, New Zealand... that's part of Australia isn't it?"

"Better not let any New Zealanders hear you say that, old man."

Ginger called out to Bhuwan, who had just emerged from his humble establishment with his young daughter:

"I say... is there any more tea?"

"I shall make you some immediately... and would you like more to eat?"

"Well, if you insist old chap."

"All that reading got your thirst up?" Ernest said.

"Well yes, but it's also sparked a bit of a thirst for taking a closer look at that mountain. We are so close, it would be a damnable shame to miss out on what will probably be our last opportunity."

"Now, you are not thinking of making your own attempt at the summit, are you?" Ernest said in jest.

"Far from it Ernest, I get dizzy when I look down from Saint Paul's Whispering Gallery."

"Ah well, that is the secret of mountaineering... never look down."

The sounds of the villager's music had all but faded now as the celebrants wound their joyful way across the distant green valley, back to where their procession had originated.

"Something to be said for the simple life," Ginger observed. "Just man and nature, and what gifts god sends them. I think I could be happy here, living in splendid poverty, away from the commercialisation of the modern world."

"That sound like the observations of a man who has never known poverty. As I recall it, you didn't exactly express that view during the snows of last winter... _god forsaken_ , I seem to remember you called it then."

Ginger laughed as Bhuwan returned with what appeared to be a full second breakfast, crispy vegetable spring rolls followed by sweet sticky mo-mo – a type of fried dumpling – for each of his guests, balanced on an overflowing tin tray.

"You are spoiling us," Ernest said, as he patted his stomach.

Bhuwan poured more butter tea into the strangely exotic porcelain cups he had brought with him from India after his discharge.

"Ever been up to the mountain...? You know, up to Everest, Bhuwan?"

"I travelled with my father to the foothills as a boy, Mr Ernest."

"Is it a journey that Ginger and I might make without too much difficulty?"

"I'm sure two fine gentlemen such as yourselves would be able to undertake the journey with little difficulty, but I would not recommend venturing much beyond the foothills. There is little more to see of Everest beyond the lower slopes, but much danger awaits the unwary who climb too high."

"Danger... you mean the dangers of ice and falling, and so on?"

"That certainly, but one must be respectful when one trespasses on the lands of..." Bhuwan's voice faltered and his eyes cast down.

"The lands of what, Bhuwan?" Ginger asked.

"No, no, you will think me superstitious... forget that I spoke."

"Well, I won't press you on the point Bhuwan, it would be transgressing the respectful relationship that we share. However, if you ever feel comfortable enough to conclude your rather veiled warning, then I would be fascinated to hear what to have to say."

"Indeed so," Ernest added. "In any case, should we choose to venture across for a closer look at Everest, we shall certainly take your advice and proceed with caution."

Bhuwan made a little diffident bow and returned to his kitchen without further words.

"So, what do you say Ernest, shall we take a stroll over, maybe take a few snaps for the album? It has to be worth the effort in the year that Everest was finally conquered."

"Do you know Ginger, I think that I may be inclined to agree with you. But, for the moment, after my second breakfast, a little snooze seems more appealing."
Chapter Seven

Over the following days the two textile agents considered the proposition of making the trek to Everest and to sit under its shadow. Now that Bhuwan had furnished them with more facts, this was no longer a foolhardy whim, they had considered all aspects, the potential rewards versus the risks. It had never actually been their intention of setting a foot on the mountain, nor of even reaching the base camp that the Everest expedition had established. The men were wise enough to know where the boundaries of their capability lay. But, the pull of a little adventure to cap off their months in Nepal had more appeal than they cared to acknowledge. In the end, it became inevitable that the trek would have to be undertaken. They sought out Bhuwan who had just returned from one of the neighbouring small farms with a supply of fresh vegetables.

"A moment of your time Bhuwan," Ernest called out.

"Certainly Mr Ernest... how may I assist you?"

"Well, you know that Ginger and I are rather taken with the idea of wandering off for a closer look at Everest... take some photos, that sort of thing... do you have any advice, maybe a map we may borrow?"

"Come and sit in the shade, and we can talk."

They gathered together under the cool dappled green shadow of the spreading Mulberry. Bhuwan called out to his daughter.

"Ayushma, bring us some tea"

He then turned his attention to his two guests once more.

"Gentlemen, if you wish to trek towards our sacred mountain, then I will assist you in any way that I am able."

"That's splendid Bhuwan." Ginger said. "How long will the journey take, do you think?"

"If you take my advice, I think you should be satisfied with going no further than Jubing or possibly Lukla. From memory, the path to Lukla is already at a considerable altitude and walking, for those not acclimatised, will become difficult. In any case, even from Jubing you will find an excellent view of Everest, many opportunities to take impressive photographs without exposing yourselves to unnecessary hardship."

"So, how long will it take to get to this Jubing place?"

"It is about 65 miles to Jubing. I think you should allow five, maybe six days."

"As much as that?"

"Each way, of course," Bhuwan added "and that is if the weather holds. The monsoon is not far away. Just to get to Jiri, our closest neighbouring village, will take much of a day and I think it would be wise to restrict your travel to daylight hours."

"Could we not get a bus to bring us back?"

"Ah... I am sorry, but these areas are remote even for Nepal. There are really no drivable roads, maybe you could hire Yaks for the return, but I would prefer to walk if it were my expedition. Travelling many hours on the back of such animals is not a comfortable experience."

"Mm... 65 miles. That's like walking from London to Brighton, probably further than we were expecting." Ginger said.

"Yes, indeed, but you also have to consider that London to Brighton is smooth paved roads on the flat, with no mountains to cross," Ernest said.

"I take your point... Would there be places we could stay along the route Bhuwan?"

"My countrymen are hospitable, I'm sure you would be able to find accommodation at the villages, but I would recommend carrying a sleeping bag and a small amount of food and water with you at all times. There is always a balance to be struck between over burdening your backs or carrying too little. The environment in the mountains can be very harsh, not what you are used to here in Pashmu's benign valley."

"I see... what do you say Ginger, still up for this adventure of ours?"

"If Bhuwan is able to supply our needs, then I think I can manage a few days in the wild. We are both fit and relatively young... well at least I am." He said with a provocative wink.

"Cheeky blighter," Ernest laughed, "I may have greying hair, but my heart is stout. I'm not yet forty you know."

"Really, I'd have guessed seventy-five."

Ernest narrowed his eyes and gave his friend an evil stare, before bursting out into laughter.

"Very well young pup, if you don't mind taking an old man along, let's do it."

Bhuwan clapped his hands.

"I have an ex-army map of the area which you are welcome to. An initial supply of food and water is of course no problem, and I know where soft goose-down sleeping bags may be purchased."

"Ah, here is Ayushma with our tea..."

The girl, still shy in the foreigner's presence, left the tea for her father to pour before running back to the tea-house. At the doorway, she turned and looked at the two Englishmen from the shelter of the doorway. Ginger waved to her and with the flash of a blushing smile, she vanished into the shadows.

"Could you get all this organised for tomorrow morning Bhuwan?"

"Certainly. It will be my pleasure to assist you in any way."

The next morning they were up early, as promised, Bhuwan had organised everything they would reasonably need and had packed two backpacks leaving room for extra clothing. They ate a hearty breakfast, as when they would next eat, was rather in the lap of the gods.

In the sunlit emptiness of the early morning they bid farewell to Bhuwan's tea-house; the sky hung blue and still, there was no sound, except for the crunch of their boots on the rocky path, and the distant chatter of the birds. The rocky road at the foot of the hill was a fawn shimmer that drew them on towards the unknown adventure that lay ahead. Before they had gone a mile, both men were stripped to their shirt sleeves. The vegetation was lush and green, and their path eventually wound its way by the side of a dancing turquoise river with water babbling across the glistening stones. They saw few people, but an occasional traveller with a laden beast at their side smiled and waved as they crossed paths.

It was already evening when they saw the lights of Jiri in the distance. Eventually, they found someone who would feed them – a woman who seemed to live alone. No longer young, she was still handsome, high of cheekbone, her skin tanned yet translucent like fine paper. She sat on the floor with legs crossed, one over the other and with her hands clasped together watching as they ate, as if they were some strange curiosity to study. Despite this, she was kindly enough and allowed them to bed down in her modest stable. Fortunately they had their sleeping bags, which on piles of dry straw, proved more than adequate. Ginger noted that an ounce of Bhuwan's foresight was worth a pound of good luck.

They slept with bellies full of the woman's Dal Bhat. The steamed rice and lentil soup, fortified with vegetables seemed to be the staple diet of the locals, and after a full day hiking across the valley, was more than welcome by the two hungry but contentedly tired Englishmen.

According to Bhuwan's map, the next place he had marked for them was a hamlet by the name of Shivalaya. On the map, it appeared to be an easy walk, but the elevation changes would make it a good preparation for the higher mountain slopes.

They marched with the Himalayas as a constant backdrop to their view. Stopping to eat the last of the food that Bhuwan had prepared for them, they sat on a promontory by the side of the path, under the shade of a fragrant tree and gazed upon the vista of terraced mountainside, dug and maintained over the millennia. The ancient roots of the hill people could be seen in every manicured stretch of farmland that had been coaxed from the slopes. They contemplated the centuries it must have taken the villagers to cut their stairs to the mountain gods, and to work the terraces into fertile geometric fields.

A man passed them as they ate. He must have been well into his sixties but marched effortlessly past them in his loose sandals with a huge load on his back, supported by a strap across his forehead.

Ernest nodded towards the man.

"That is the stuff that Sherpa's are made of Ginger," he said in a lowered voice.

"It's no wonder those chaps are in such demand by the mountaineers."

Arriving at Shivalaya, they were once more tired and hungry. Finding a tea-house, they took much needed refreshment and replenished their own supplies. Ernest lay out the map.

"If we follow Bhuma's direction, we should take the path to this place called Sete, next – looks like it might be a long trek."

"So, that's for tomorrow then," Ginger said, as he lay back resting on his elbows, looking at the perfectly manicured fields enclosed in stone walls.

"I have to agree Ginger, my legs have taken on an uncustomary wobble over the past few miles."

He sat down by his companion's side.

"Are you feeling hungry?"

"Ravenous old chap... could probably manage one of those beasts single handed, if someone would roast it for me."

He nodded towards a small cluster of long haired domestic Yaks that grazed contentedly on the hillside enclosure.

"Ha, eyes bigger than your belly, but I know what you mean... let's go and see if we can find a friendly villager who might be willing to part with some decent fare in exchange for a few rupees."

After finding exactly that at a nearby farm house, they spent the night, before setting off again accompanied by three of the farmer's gleefully chattering children, who led them to the crossroad and pointed them in the right direction for Sete.

The weather had been kind – T-shirt and shorts, with a woollen jumper only needed for the evening. The last push to Sete, which was perched on a rolling mountainside, was an uphill stretch which once more tested their stamina to the limit. The effect of the changing altitude was starting to be felt by the two men. The lushness was starting to give way to a harsher mountainous feel, and the temperature called for woollens and jackets. The farmed terraces were now noticeably fewer, and the snow-clad peaks were starting to dominate the landscape. Everest was still there, growing larger by the day. As the sun sank slowly, the majestic mountain cast its shadow over them, and they were captivated by its spell.

Exhausted from the day's exertion, the two men sought out more Dal Bhat and tea from a local tea-house; they found the simple, yet healthy diet, ideal for maintaining their strength. As the moon rose in the clear night sky, the temperature fell sharply, and they made a small fire at their impromptu camp site. Watching the turning stars beyond the snowy peaks, exhausted but eager for the fourth day of their adventure, Ernest and Ginger were quick to find sleep, warm in their goose-down bags.

The next day took them to a place called Junbesi. The journey was growing harder each day, and their earlier resolve to push on beyond their original plans was now weakened. Crossing the pass which skirted the edge of the tree line at 11,500 feet, had certainly tested their legs. Here, the hardwoods slowly gave way to scrub and juniper as the air grew cooler and thinner. Snow and ice became their companion, as they encountered the narrow snow packed trail. Even in their stout hiking boots, they found the going slippery and treacherous. They trudged on through the barren landscape, their pace reduced to no more than one mile an hour. Suddenly enveloped in fine swirls of delicate mist, they felt as if there was something malignant hovering close.

"Probably just me old man, but I get the strangest feeling that we are being watched."

"You feel it too? Let's press on," Ernest said, pulling his jacket close against the flap of the wind.

Just as they thought they had entered a place of desolate wilderness, where no living man had set foot before, below them on the slippery hillside they stumbled on a group of children playing in front of their home. Both men turned and laughed.

"Not so far from civilisation after all..."

"No, I was beginning to feel that we were the last men left on earth."

"I know... there's something about these mountains that captures one's imagination... has you believing in all sorts of..." Ginger said as he slapped his companion across the shoulders.

"I know old man, I know exactly how you feel."

They carried on marching, ever upwards. Maybe half an hour had passed, the travelling seeming to get harder with every step.

"Let's take a look at the map, see what's in store."

They held the map on the ground, kneeling to hold it in place as the chattering wind rising up from the lower slopes, threatened to rip it from their hands.

"Looks as if the track drops down into the valley, a little further on... I thought I could hear the sound of a river."

"Good, let's press on then, in the hope of some easier going."

As they finally began the start of a slow descent, the air seemed to thicken and warm. Even the track seemed easier, as they descended a thousand feet. The river lay before them, swelling into a small lake, a vast bowl of water bulging lead-blue under the darkening sky. They continued down further, until once more they reached the land of trees. Massive ancient conifers, with beards of hanging moss grew from the hillsides, their trunks were two, maybe three feet in diameter. Following down into the valley, they eventually found pastureland again, nestled under the protection of the soaring cliffs in a microclimate of their own. Below them stretched their day's goal: Jumbesi.

Arriving exhausted, they found a haven in the village where they were given the habitual welcome reserved for weary travellers, who had a few Nepalese rupee to lubricate the natural native generosity. The daughter of the house, Lakshmi, still in her teens, cooked the best meal they had enjoyed yet. It was all prepared over a roaring wood fire with steaming pans, filling the room with intoxicating spices. The meal surpassed even the best of Bhuwan's legendary culinary expertise. Simple enough, it consisted of rice and lentils, vegetable curry, a little buffalo curry with radish and pepper chutney. But, its consumption was a joy. That evening, they ate beyond well and tasted for the first time, the warm apple brandy Rakshi, the locals made. As night fell, they were directed to the village's only hostelry, where the two companions enjoyed the deep sleep of the happily exhausted.

Fortified by the hospitality and a sound night's sleep, they bade farewell to their new friends, using the few words of Nepali they had and embraced the dawn with renewed vigour. Even so, leaving Jumbesi was hard, not only were they abandoning a fine cook in Lakshmi, but the next part of their journey would take them even higher up the mountains as they headed for Jubbing.

The two intrepid hikers made their way along the snow packed track, scrambling over rocks. In the shadows they found treacherous patches of ice. Ginger turned back, his companion had slowed, the extra years he carried were starting to slow his progress.

"You all right Ernest?"

"Just hold on a little..." Ernest gasped.

He paused by an outcropping of black slippery rock.

"Ginger old man, are you sure this is the right way?"

"Well, I was pretty sure it was, but I have to admit, the going is getting a little tough. Let's take a break and have a look at the map... do you still have some of that Rakshi that I saw you negotiating for last night?"

"Enough for a mouthful each... maybe two," Ernest said.

Ginger slipped his backpack from his tired shoulders and unfolded Bhuwan's map.

"Maybe we went wrong back here..." He said, stabbing his finger at a minor cross road. "It's already mid-afternoon and we really should have sighted Jubbing by now."

"My thoughts exactly Ginger," Ernest panted with steaming breath.

He made his way up to Ginger and knelt down beside him. Still breathing heavily, he crouched over the rumpled map. Over the days of constant use the map had become stained and the ink line that Bhuwan had carefully traced had become blurred and indistinct.

"The scale is rather on the small side to make any sense of our local topography... to be honest Ernest, I can't really tell where we are."

He traced a finger round Jubbing, which was clearly shown on the map.

"So, we know for certain that we are five hours march away from here... and we headed in broadly this direction..."

"It still leaves a large area, we could be anywhere in that triangle... maybe we should have found a Sherpa guide to accompany us."

"Not sure about the Sherpa, for those chaps this is just a walk in the park."

"Well, I wouldn't mind someone to carry my pack and keep us on the right track."

Ginger laughed.

"OK Grandpa – maybe we should make this the end of our journey; we should not forget Bhuwan's warning about going too far. We are certainly close enough to Everest to get some splendid shots." He looked up at the mountain that towered above them, it was still at least 10 miles away, but it dominated the landscape now. Somehow unreal, as if the gods had erected a giant cut-out against the brilliant blue sky.

They rested for half an hour, ate some sweet rice dumplings and drank the remains of the apple brandy.

"Pass me my Kodachrome film will you Ginger, it would be a shame to take these shots in black and white."

Ernest spent fifteen minutes shooting two rolls of film, while Ginger took twenty or so carefully framed images of the Goddess Mother of the Snows for his own collection.

Returning to the map Ernest did some quick mental arithmetic.

"Based on the time we have been walking and an estimate of our speed, I think we must be about here... give or take a mile or two."

Ginger looked over Ernest's shoulder.

"I can't argue with your logic Ernest... so, if you are right, if we carry on a little way we should inevitably cross a ridge that leads down to this river." He stabbed a cold finger against the map. "We would be certain to find some civilisation down in the valley, then we can, if you like, find a guide to put us on the way back to Pashmu... unless you'd like to continue?"

"I think we've come far enough... In any case, wouldn't you just rather retrace our steps and head straight back to Jumbesi... I have a fondness for the place."

"A fondness for young Lakshmi's cooking."

"Ha, maybe you're right Ginger... but, who could blame me?"

"So, our options are to go on and maybe find an easy way back or return the way we came?"

"I think you want to go on... Ginger."

"No, I'm easy, but if we go back, it will be well past dark before we find Jumbesi again. In the dark... well, who knows what trouble we could find ourselves in?"

"And if we go on there is no guarantee that we will find a place to spend the night. We have almost no food left and up here the nights are cold."

"I'm happy to put myself in your hands Ernest... you decide."

"Alright, a compromise... we'll go on round the next bluff and if we can't see a clear route down to the valley, we'll turn back and retrace our steps... to the devil with the darkness."

"Very well Ernest, lead on."

It took them half an hour to round the bluff and discovered nothing more compelling than a vague track that went up and up as far as they could see. The turquoise river was visibly bright in the valley floor, but the only way down was an impossible scrabble of loose icy rocks, no reasonable way of getting down unless they had a thousand feet of rope.

"So, we turn back then Ernest."

"Looks that way, I suggest we try and up our pace while there is still light to guide us."

Everest was still there, gazing down on them with its shroud of white cloud. It's face just a short while ago, one of benevolence, suddenly seem cast with a sinister glare. The shadows were already lengthening as Ginger turned his face to look once more upon the mountain. Magnificent and yet frighteningly awesome. He took a pace back and was about to make some idle comment when Ernest called out to him.

"Look out Ginger... Ginger."

But, Ernest's cry came too late. As Ginger had backed away from the view of the mountain, his foot had caught on a loose patch of icy rock. He looked up astonished, unable to even scream as he crashed through a drift of shallow ice and slithered down the precipitous edge, bouncing towards the valley floor.
Chapter Eight

Ernest stood trembling at the edge. He knew that no one could have survived that fall, yet from somewhere inside him, came some delicate filaments of hope. Like the bellow of some desperate mountain beast, his voice echoed out across the desolate terrain.

"Ginger! My god Ginger, hold on, I'm coming... I'm coming."

He searched for a way down but could find nothing, then sinking to his knees he uttered words of despair.

"I can't do this alone Ginger... I need you."

He looked at his watch, there were just a couple of hours before the sun would start to sink behind the Himalayas. Time was not on his side. From where he stood, any attempt at going down directly after Ginger would be nothing less than suicidal. He ran a hundred metres in a roughly northwards direction, across the edge of the cliff. The thin air soon had him gasping, but he saw what he needed. There was a gentler slope that fell down, maybe two hundred feet, where it seemed to join up with something akin to a series of goat tracks that zigzagged down towards the valley floor. The only way he could safely negotiate the slope was to slide down on his backside, using the heels of his boots as brakes. Even so, he found it no easy task. He grasped at handfuls of tussock to steady him as he slid precariously towards the goat track. Finally there, he was able to stand. He called out to his lost companion, now more in desperation than hope.

"Ginger, where are you? Can you hear me?"

There was no reply. Fighting back the emotion, he did the only thing he could and edged further down the precipitous slope, following the winding path made by the agile cloven hoofed mountain goats. Somewhere below him lay Ginger, alive or dead, he did not know. Ernest pressed on, descending maybe another hundred feet, as he rounded an outcrop of rock there was a shallow plateau just below him. A flat area of tussock and there he saw Ginger. He was face down and unmoving, the bright blue backpack still attached like an un-deployed parachute, his limbs were buckled under him, as if he were a carelessly tossed rag doll.

"Ginger... hold on old man, I'm coming!"

The relief at seeing Ginger rather overcame his prudence, and he bounded forward in large incautious strides, eager to reach his companion as quickly as possible. It was an overly optimistic approach as his foot rolled on a loose rock and tipped him forward. He rolled, crashing against rocks and scrub, falling and bouncing on the unforgiving terrain, until he came to rest by nothing more than good fortune, on the flat plateau. A searing pain bit against his left arm as he found himself staring up at the sky, winded and gasping for air. He knew his arm was broken, he had heard the snap as he careered down the rough escarpment, now he could feel the pain as the fractured bones ground together with each movement. Ernest sat up. He needed a moment to gather together the last strands of his flagging composure. Ginger still lay unmoving, just fifteen yards away. Ernest could see the twisted limbs of his colleague, he could see pooling blood...

"Ginger..."

This time the apparently lifeless body responded with a grunt, and Ernest looked up to the heavens. "Thank God," he whispered through clenched teeth and the debilitating pain from his arm.

He lay unmoving, for maybe ten minutes, until he could summon enough fortitude to stand and hobble towards Ginger.

"Ginger... can you hear me?"

He knelt down and pulled the blood soaked hair from Ginger's eyes.

"Yes," Ginger said through a whispery voice, thick with blood.

"We can get through this old man..." Ernest said, believing not a syllable of his words.

_What can you say in a moment like this,_ he wondered. Words of encouragement were all that was left when your survival hung by a thread. But, beneath it was something else... an awareness of the unfairness of their situation, it was not quite anger, but a sort of surly resentment at the predicament in which they grimly found themselves. Ernest needed someone to blame... Ginger? Himself? God?

"Damn it to hell," he cursed under his breath.

"Got ourselves into a bit of a pickle this time..." Ginger said.

Despite himself, Ginger's prosaic words cascaded Ernest into laughter. In truth, it was closer to hysteria, but Ernest knew he had to pull himself together if either of them were to survive.

"Can you move Ginger?" He asked, but his companion had lapsed into unconsciousness again.

He did what he could to make Ginger comfortable, then scrabbled around gathering enough wood to make a fire. When Ginger finally opened his eyes with a look of bewilderment, he gave him a little water and wiped the blood from his mouth. Ernest then drank deeply himself, he felt the cold water slide down into his stomach and felt a little revived. He had a few sweet dumplings left over which he shared with Ginger, who now seemed to have more awareness of his situation. As darkness fell, they both managed to ease their broken bodies into their sleeping bags.

"I'll get you down to the valley floor as soon as it's light," Ernest said.

"I'm not sure I'll make it old man... maybe you should leave me."

"That's not going to happen Ginger."

With his good arm, he patted Ginger on the shoulder and as he did, from high up in the mountains, a stomach churning howl shattered the stillness and filled the two men with an altogether different dread.

"What the hell was that?" Ginger whispered. "– It sounded like some unimaginable wild beast come to finish us off."

There was a long pause before Ernest could gather himself to reply.

"Just the wind old man – just the wind, blowing through the valley."

"That was not the wind Ernest." Ginger whispered, as he sank deeper into his goose-down covers.

Their night's sleep was fitful, but there was no repeat of the howl, and as the first silver edge of dawn lit the eastern sky, both men were awake. Ginger had regained a little of his strength but was far from recovered. Ernest's arm was still throbbing, but his thoughts were occupied with getting the two of them back to civilisation.

They drank the last dregs of their water, it was little more than enough to wet their lips. Higher up, where they had been yesterday, there was snow and ice that could be melted, but now lower down towards the valley, only the distant river could quench their thirst.

"Do you have any food left Ernest?" Ginger asked, as he made a painful effort to sit up a little.

"No, sorry, we finished it all off last night."

"There should be a bar of chocolate in my pack, if you've got the strength to rummage through... I was keeping it for an emergency... I think our present situation qualifies for that status."

Ernest found the chocolate, and they shared the bar not knowing when they might eat again.

"Do you think you can walk Ginger?"

"I'll give it a damn good shot..."

He hoisted himself up onto his feet. It was clear that the effort had drained him, that and the pain from his cracked ribs. He took a few wobbly steps and looked at the goat track that led down to the valley floor.

"Looks a bit rough Ernest."

"It's our only way... unless we wait for the vultures to find us."

"The vultures or whatever made that howl last night," Ginger said.

Ernest had been trying to suppress his thoughts on that matter and let the comment drift away unacknowledged. He collected their sleeping bags and with a stab of pain from his broken arm, heaved both back packs across his shoulders. He was deathly pale, and despite the chill mountain air, a sheen of glistening sweat beaded across his forehead.

"I could manage one of those bags old man," Ginger said with more courage than capacity to deliver.

Ernest looked at his companion, he was struggling with trembling legs to hold his own weight, let alone carry a burden. Ginger was clearly far from well, unless he could get him to some medical aid, his outlook was bleak.

"I don't think so Ginger, just concentrate on getting down to the river... we need the water for one thing, but there's bound to be help down there."

Their progress was arduous and painful, but after a little more than an hour the river finally came into view below them. It was a sight that lifted their spirits, the silver babbling water held more than the promise of a much needed drink, it spoke to them of help and the return of civilisation.

"I need to rest for a minute," Ginger said, sinking to his knees.

Ernest who had been trying to support his companion with his good arm, as well as cope with the two bags, was as physically spent as Ginger.

"Yes, let's take a breather."

Ernest sat and looked around. The sun was already rising in the sky and some warmth fell across his shoulders, it was somehow soothing for his spirit, as well as the incessant nagging pain from his arm. The valley floor was close now, on his own he could get down in maybe half an hour. He noticed a small cave opening into the rock face a little further on.

"What say we get you into that cave, make you comfortable, and I'll go down and get some water."

"You're planning on leaving me?"

"I can't carry you Ginger, and you sure as hell don't have the strength to go much further under your own steam. I'll get you water, and then go on alone, following the river downstream until I find some help... Ginger I will be back for you, have no fear of that."

"I know old man... I'm sorry, I got you into this mess."

"It was an accident Ginger, it could just as easily have been me who slipped."

Ginger nodded, he had no strength to argue, his face was ghostly pale as he fought not to fall into unconsciousness again.

"It might be better to leave me Ernest, truth is I'm running on empty."

After a few minutes rest, Ernest stood.

"Think you can make it into the cave?"

"I think I'd rather stay out here in the sun. A little warmth might do me good."

"You could be right Ginger. I'll make you comfortable here and go for some water. I should be back in half an hour," he said optimistically.

He lay one of the sleeping bags against the bank and eased Ginger onto it in a sitting position. Then he wrapped him in the other bag. Placing the back of his hand against Ginger's forehead he said, "You might have a slight fever... not really surprising. Try and get some sleep."

"A nice cup of tea would go down rather well," Ginger said with a wan smile.

"I'll see what I can do."

Ernest set off with just the two water canteens strapped across his shoulder. Without having to support Ginger, clambering down the goat track was much easier, and within half an hour he was at the valley floor, the edge of the shallow babbling river sang to him as he marched the hundred yards to its edge. He waded in across the polished rocks, and he wasted no time in scooping water in his cupped hand and quenching his thirst. The icy cold water was the finest drink he had taken in his entire life, and he sat for a while, cooling his sore feet and splashing the water across his face and neck before brimming both canteens. He looked up to where he had left Ginger, something – a dirty white, loping shape – flashed across his vision from a little above his companion's position and was then gone. _Just a trick of the light... perhaps a mountain goat_ he told himself rather unconvincingly. Whatever it was had unsettled him, and it was with trepidation that he started back up the goat track towards Ginger.

As he walked in steady strides across the rocky path, he saw something brightly coloured, peeking out from the undergrowth. Driven by curiosity, he made his way towards it. Bending down to take a closer look, he saw what it was... a string puppet, some kind of marionette. An astonishing find. The puppet dressed in Nepalese national costume might have been a child's toy, but he struggled to understand how it could have ended up here. It had obviously spent many seasons out in the open air, and as Ernest picked it up, it felt delicately fragile. Then his eye was caught by something silvery, glinting in the mid-morning sun. Ernest brushed away the covering of loose rock, soil and the growth that had disguised its presence, until with astonishment he saw the unmistakable image of a swastika glaring up at him...

"My god, it's a Nazi plane," he said.

As he stood back, and the advantage of hindsight, he could just make out a vague scar on the mountainside where the aircraft had crashed and slithered to its final resting place.

He made his way back to Ginger.

"Look what I found... a puppet... that's a sure sign that we can't be far from a village."

"That's good... do you have any water?"

"Sorry yes, of course."

He lifted one of the canteens to Gingers lips who drank deeply.

"Sorry, it's not a cup of Earl Grey... but, there seemed to have been a run on it today.

Ginger smiled, the water had revived him.

"So... show me the puppet."

"Take care, it's very old and fragile."

Ginger took it in his trembling hands.

"This must mean that help can't be far away... don't you think Ernest?"

"I do... here, drink some more."

"No, I've had enough for the moment."

"That's not all I found down there."

"Don't tell me a Lyons tea shop, with muffins and toast and cakes."

Although still able to summon some humour, his voice was thin. _Like a dying man's,_ Ernest thought.

"No, not exactly... But we'll be taking tea together in London, before you know it old man... what I found was a crashed aircraft... It must have gone down, I don't know, perhaps fifteen years ago... and what's more, it was marked with swastikas."

"Good god Ernest. How on earth...? What were the Nazi's doing in the Himalayas fifteen or so years ago?"

Ernest shrugged.

"When we get back, we'll report it to the authorities... there may well be bodies inside."

"Won't be much left of the poor blighters after this long Ernest."

"No, and I'm not sure how much sympathy I can waste on those Nazi devils in any case."

Ginger nodded, but his eyes were growing heavy.

"Alright old man, get some sleep... we'll be away from this place before you know it. He put the full canteen of water into Gingers hands, and taking the other one he turned back to the goat track and began to retrace his steps to the valley floor.

As he faced the river there was open land to his right, sloping upwards, lightly wooded but undistinguished with not a house or hovel in sight. Across the river, a deep line of darkly louring trees edged down to the water. There was no time to waste, and he marched at the best pace he could manage up the valley to the village he knew, he prayed, must be there. It was three hours before he found anything resembling a road, just a dusty track, mostly overgrown and hidden under scrub, but it gave him heart and he continued as fast as he could. Within a mile the indistinct track had broadened into a more travelled path, and Ernest knew that it must lead to a village. His arm was still painful, he realised that he should have tried to make a splint and a sling to support it, but there had been little opportunity. All he had now were the clothes he was dressed in. He thought about ripping up his shirt but could raise little enthusiasm for destroying his clothing. Then in the distance, he saw an old woman leading an animal of some sort. The beast was laden with a huge bundle of gathered firewood she had apparently collected from the sparse woodlands. She was going in the same direction as he, though at a lazy ambling pace. Like the elderly across the world, her gait was marked by a gently rolling motion, shifting the weight from one stiff leg to the other, as she made forward progress.

Ernest called out to her. Even from the distance of fifty yards, Ernest could sense the fear that gripped her as the woman turned to look at him.

"I need help... my friend is..."

He pointed back up, towards where he had come from. The woman had no English, and Ernest's Nepali was rudimentary at best, but eventually he seemed to make her understand. Even so, she would not venture down the valley and instead urged him to follow her. He had no option but to follow her as she quickened her pace and pulled her yak into an unenthusiastic half trot. The road started to climb, and in the distance, Ernest could see a lone building on the hillside. As they got closer, the woman let out a high-pitched whistle and a younger man appeared from the building. He ran down to meet them with effortless sure-footed strides. He and the woman exchanged words and then the man spoke to Ernest.

"You English man?" he asked.

"Yes, yes... I need help... my companion is badly hurt... back there."

He pointed back down the valley, where a soft mist was starting to swirl as the evening gathered.

"That place is..."

He struggled to find an English word that would adequately convey the sense of the forbidden. "Very bad place... you come me. My mother say... no safe... Metoh-kangmi land... Yeti."

The word Yeti stung at Ernest's western reason. After all he had seen and heard, Ernest had struggled not to let thoughts of the fabled _Abominable Snowman_ enter his mind. Now the word had been spoken, and despite laying claim to being a rational man, he felt an increasing and oppressive dread linked to thoughts of the mythological creature.

"Please we must bring my companion out... I will pay you."

Ernest thrust a handful of notes from his wallet at the man.

"I not so fright as mother... I will go you," he pointed back at his house. "Yaks..." he said beckoning. "Come me."

Ernest could only comply with the man's wishes and followed up to the house where the man saddled two Yaks.

"I Janak," the man said with an affable smile that Ernest found completely inappropriate.

Despite this, he replied as if they had just been introduced at a Knightsbridge cocktail party.

"Pleased to meet you Janak," Ernest said... "I Ernest."

The man pronounced the name "Ur-ne-st", as if it were a tongue twister requiring careful unravelling.

With difficulty, Ernest mounted his beast and sank into the broad wood framed saddle. They rode down the valley at a speed that was far greater than Ernest had managed on foot. Even so, it was nearly dark by the time they urged the beasts up the winding track to where Ginger had been left.

What met Ernest's eyes when he slipped wearily from his saddle sent a tremor of shock across his body. The sleeping bags in which he had carefully wrapped Ginger, had been ripped to shreds with the feathers scattered to the wind, what remained was covered in blood, and there was no sign whatsoever of Ginger, just the mangled remains of a forlorn string puppet.

It was all too much for Ernest. The effort of returning with help, coupled with the ceaseless pain from his fractured arm had drained him to the core. He was chilled to the bone now that the sun had sunk, and this latest shock was the final straw. He felt the world turn to blackness as his knees buckled, and he collapsed into an exhausted heap on the barren mountainside.
Chapter Nine

When Ernest Pollock woke, he found himself no longer under the shadow of Everest but in a comfortable hospital bed in Kathmandu. It was a small, yet airy room, shared with just one other bed. Light shafted in through the window blinds, and from the strength and angle of the sun, he assumed that it must already be afternoon. He raised his head and blinked until his eyes regained their focus and saw with relief tempered with considerable confusion, the face of his travelling companion Ginger Thomas, sitting up in his own bed reading a tattered and outdated copy of _Punch_. His torso was heavily strapped and swathed in bandages, and his head was adorned with several dressings, but otherwise he seemed to be in good health. Ernest's movement as he eased his position higher in the bed, alerted Ginger.

"Ernest... you're back in the land of the living."

"Ginger, old man... I feared you were..."

"Take it easy, as you see I'm fine. I owe it all to you... you and that excellent fellow Janak, who managed to take the both of us back to his village. I have to say, much of what happened is a blur, but he organised some first-aid and eventually transport back to Kathmandu, and the hospital."

"I don't remember any of that, the last thing I remember, was seeing the shredded remains of the sleeping bags and thinking the worst... what happened out there in the wilderness Ginger?"

"Fact is, I'm not at all sure. Your man Janak, apparently found me tucked away in a small cave... we really must see about some substantial reward for him by the way...

"Yes indeed."

"But, how I got into the cave is a mystery to me. The ripped sleeping bags tell their own story, but exactly what happened, is a matter of general speculation. The local press is having a field day."

"What about the blood, it was everywhere."

"To be honest, I'm not sure if any of what I remember actually happened, or if it was all part of my general delirium... Everything is extremely vague, I seem to remember some sort of violent struggle... I assume that whatever happened, must have been so traumatic that I blocked it out... There are some quite severe scratch marks along my legs. I can only imagine that I managed to drag myself into the cave, and the narrow entrance was too small for... well, whatever it was... the locals seem to be building up some story about Yeti."

"I know, Janak's mother mentioned them, she was too frightened to go back... the lands where we ended up appear to be considered forbidden, sacred..."

"Well, we never really talked about it at the time... but you must remember those spine chilling howls."

"Yes, I do old man, only too well. That terrifying sound is etched onto my memory for ever. At the time, we were in so much trouble already, I didn't want to acknowledge anything else. So, I sort of blocked out all thoughts of what phenomenon might have made that noise... So, Ginger, how are you now?"

"Physically, I'm on the mend. I had a lot of bad bruising, several cracked ribs, cuts to my back and legs, concussion... oh, and a broken wrist."

He lifted his arm to display the heavily plastered wrist.

"I guess the worst thing is, coming to terms with your own mortality, how damned fragile our grip on life really is... The doctors say it was a miracle that I survived. Same for you... by the time they got you back, you were apparently in pretty bad shape yourself. Your broken arm was in a bad way, you were suffering from shock, dehydration and early stage hypothermia. They kept you sedated for several days."

"I think in those last hours, I was running on adrenaline."

"Well, there's no doubt that you saved my life Ernest."

"I'll send you the bill... "

"Do that old man," Ginger laughed.

He regretted laughing as it brought a fire to his fragile ribs.

"So, how long have we been here?" Ernest asked.

"Let me see... It will be a week the day after tomorrow, I think... I only really woke up myself, a couple of days ago."

"A week... good grief, this is all too much to take in Ginger..."

"I know... I feel the same. On the plus side, we seem to have become minor celebrities."

"Really! Can't quite see how that is a plus."

"Well according to the local press, we returned from the edge of death, attacked by a hoard of yeti and bearing tales of a crashed Nazi plane."

"Of course, the plane wreckage I had forgotten all about that."

"Sorry if I stole your thunder about the aircraft, but I did rather babble on hysterically when I first came to my senses."

"Have you spoken to the doctor yet?"

"I have indeed... actually, she's a woman."

"Really?"

"Yes... about my age in fact, she's an Indian beauty by the name of Aruna... and actually a serious piece of totty."

"Ginger, a little decorum please." Ernest laughed. "So, what time do they feed us around here?"

"Ah, you must be feeling better."

The day slowly wound down and resolved itself in deep curative sleep for both men. The following day, after they had eaten a modest breakfast, a petite young nurse popped her head round the door, she seemed as tentative as a kitten when faced by these apparently important foreigners. She made to remove the breakfast trays, a dark lock falling limply forward from her starched white cap.

"Please... do you gentlemen feel well enough to accept some visitors?"

Her English was excellent, if delivered with a melodious Nepali accent.

"Visitors... who?"

"I think they are from the foreign press, sir... Americans perhaps."

"Send 'em in," Ginger said.

When the nurse had left, quietly closing the door behind her, Ernest raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"Ginger... must you?"

"Oh, don't be a stick in the mud, talking can't do any harm... might even be good for business."

"I don't see how... fact is, I'd rather like to forget everything that happened, draw a veil over it."

"I'll do the talking... don't worry."

Two well-dressed men entered. They were both handsomely tall with firm handshakes, and might have been taken for brothers, if not for the differing surnames.

"Hi, I'm Ed Stewart and this is my colleague, Mike Dean. We're journalists... Have you heard of the National Geographic?" he asked in a voice that held the slightest hint of a southern drawl.

His smile was full of strong white teeth that looked oddly unnatural.

"Indeed so... never go anywhere without a copy." Ginger said rather flippantly. "What can we do for you?"

"Well, we have picked up in the local press about your adventure, and wondered if we could talk to you about your encounter with these yeti creatures and your discovery of the wrecked airplane."

Ernest rolled over in his bed, turning his back on the two men. It may not have been the best way of showing his lack of interest, as his movement started his arm throbbing painfully again.

"Mind if we sit?" Ed enquired, as he dragged two chairs noisily across the recently waxed linoleum.

"You are Mr Thomas?"

"Yes, Jack Thomas."

"Well Jack, if we can convince you to give us an exclusive interview, I'm sure we could offer you some significant financial compensation... enough to cover your hospital bills, say."

"Really... what do you say Ernest?"

"Just leave me out of this Ginger," Ernest said.

"Look guys... we just want to present an interesting story to our readership. An unaccounted for Nazi plane wreck could be of huge interest, but the killer punch is really your encounter with these Yeti creatures. There's huge interest in that sort of thing back in the States. We can keep your identities as vague as you like, if you want to avoid publicity."

"I'm not sure..." Ginger said.

"Look Jack, Mike and I are just a couple of home town guys, looking for a little adventure to spice up our lives, just like you and your buddy really. The journalism caper just pays our way, we understand how you feel. We were over in Tibet recently... had one hell of a job getting into the country, now that it's over run by those god damned commie Chinese. We were just doing a bit of low altitude climbing, talking to the locals just for a little background colour for a general article, nothing political... Nearly ended up in jail. Mike will tell you, we had to do some fast talking to get out of there. We decided to hop across the border to Nepal, as soon as we could, and heard about your rather swell adventure. If you don't want to talk, that's up to you, we understand 100 percent... A couple of guys like you could probably use a little cash, it would be a pity to turn your back on a sweet opportunity like this."

Ginger turned his head to Ernest, who was still presenting his back to the proceedings. Ernest had just saved his life, at considerable cost to his own welfare, there was no way that he was going to agree to anything without Ernest's accord.

"Look," Mike chipped in, who had been silent up until now. "I think it's best if we leave you two gentlemen to mull over our proposition. Here's my card, for the next few days you can get hold of us at the Nepal Hotel, in Chabahil district. After that, we are definitely going after this story... I won't beat about the bush, there are other's lining up to talk to us, we may even trek out to the crash site and take a look at the airplane wreckage first-hand. It's entirely up to you, if you want to cash in on this. It would make our job easier, but there is no pressure. Think it over gentlemen."

He stood and with a nod to his colleague, the two men made their exit.

Walking along the corridor they unexpectedly saw a face they recognised.

"Well, I'll be... If it isn't the venerable G J Peters. Still with the Custodian?"

"Mike... and Ed. Should have known you two news-hounds would have beaten me to the story. What tale did you spin my naive compatriots this time to convince them to sell you their story?"

"Ouch, that really hurts." Mike laughed. "You know, we are totally legit... in any case, there was no dice with those two characters, not yet anyway... we did plant some seeds, we'll wait a couple of days and see if anything sprouts."

"I suppose you dangled a bag of cash in front of their eyes for an exclusive."

"Like I said, they spilled no beans, apart from what the locals are saying, we are still in the dark about what really happened..."

"That's never stopped you before Mike," Graham said with an undisguised chuckle.

"Now Graham, _old bean_ , surely you can't be suggesting that we might be reduced to fabricating our own stories, without serious supporting facts."

"The thought never crossed my mind."

"Like I said, those two jokers seem a little reluctant to take the financial bait for some reason, but you're welcome to try yourself."

"You know, the Custodian never pays for stories... it's called journalistic integrity."

"We prefer to call a legitimate payment for services received, free enterprise."

"Ah, the American way... so, where are you chaps staying?"

"The Nepal Hotel, if you can call the place a hotel... if they have plumbing, they keep it well hidden. So, what say we meet up later and grab a drink for old times?"

"Sounds good, I've got a flight out of here tomorrow, but I could meet you at the Nepal around seven this evening, we could make a night of it."

"That's great... don't suppose you've brought that dishy girlfriend with you. What was her name?"

The question seemed to take Graham by surprise, it precipitated a strange feeling of longing, of regret over a flippant remark that she had taken badly.

He remembered the first time he had seen her, his Loretta. It was in the park. A bright, wind-worried day, she'd sat in a leafy hollow on a tartan blanket spread out on the grass. There was another girl with her whose face he could no longer bring to mind. The dappled sunlight bounced across Loretta's hair as she delved into a wicker hamper, as big as a small suitcase, containing bottles and vacuum flasks and packets of sandwiches wrapped in grease-proof paper. He knew instantly that he had to meet her, but it took him a month of haphazardly contrived encounters before he found the courage to speak to her...

"You mean Loretta..." he said. "No, that's something of a sore point, I might have burned my bridges there," he said with infinite regret.

"Well, you can nudge her in my direction any time."

"I think she might like to make her own decisions over such matters, Mike."

"Yeah, I kind of got that impression when we met her with you, over in London. Anyway, we'll see you at seven, chew the fat on old times... Oh, by the way, congratulations on that Everest piece, it was a top-notch piece of writing... if you gloss over the _Britain still rules the waves_ hyperbole."

Graham laughed.

"We'll continue this discussion later gentlemen... I have a scoop to snaffle from under your noses."

Graham Peters tapped on the door and entered the intrepid adventurers' room. It was a bright clean room, more modern than he was expecting. A slight trace of Mike's aftershave still hung rather pungently in the air.

"Good morning gentlemen, I spoke to the young nurse, and she said it was alright if I popped in and talked to you for a few moments."

"You another journalist?" Ernest asked.

"I'm Graham Peters... I've been in Nepal covering the Everest expedition..."

"Ah, are you the chap who wrote the article in the Custodian?"

"I have to plead guilty on that front."

"Well, you might say that you are to blame for our little adventure..."

"How so?"

"Well, after reading your article, we were rather taken by the idea of popping down to see Everest up close... I'm Jack Thomas, and this is my colleague Ernest Pollock."

"I'm pleased to meet you. I hope you are recovering from your misfortune."

"We'll survive..." Ernest said.

"The fact is, I was at the point of catching a flight to Delhi on my way back to London, when I heard about what had happened to you. So, I delayed things for a couple of days. What really interests me, is the downed aircraft. I was involved in transcribing German messages during the war and have developed something of an interest, in what the Nazis were up to in the years leading up to the outbreak. A crashed German aircraft so far from Europe has me intrigued... I don't suppose you could identify the type of aircraft."

"The type? No, I have little knowledge of such things, in any case, there was little of it visible and the small section I found, was overgrown. I could easily have walked past it without noticing a thing. The fact is, I had other more pressing things on my mind at the time," Ernest said.

"Yes, so I understand..."

"The Americans seemed more interested in the Yeti encounter," Ginger remarked.

"I imagine they were. That sort of story is usually fodder for the less serious papers."

"The local reports have certainly blown it out of proportion, but there was certainly something strange out there for which we can offer no other explanation," Ginger stated.

"I suspect you are sceptical Mr Peters?" Ernest said.

"I have an open mind on the matter, I suppose I would say that some hard evidence would help convince me."

"You didn't hear those howls... in other words, you are saying that you doubt the voracity of our story Mr Peters."

"Not at all, but the Custodian is a serious paper with a conservative readership."

"Well, the Americans from the National Geographic seem very interested, willing to pay us a fortune in fact."

"National Geographic? Is that what they told you?"

"You doubt their credibility?"

"I know the two gentlemen rather well, in fact, I bumped into them in the corridor. We go back a long way. They were over in England after the war, doing a story on the development of the German flying bombs and the V2 rocket, and how it had led to Operation Paperclip in the United States, with 1,600 German rocket scientists and technicians being shipped over there. Look, those two are decent enough chaps, I have no problem with their integrity, but they do tend to over sensationalize things. I'm sure they have had work published in the National Geographic, but I would describe them more as freelance operatives with any eye for the main chance."

"You would not be offering any financial compensation for an exclusive?" Ginger asked.

"No, that's not editorial policy at the Custodian I'm afraid... But I wonder, could I just ask you a few pertinent questions?"

"Can't stop you asking, but there is no guarantee that we will answer," Ernest stated.

"Very well, do you have map references for where you found the aircraft wreckage?"

"Not exactly, but we know the general area, it would not be difficult to find the place again. We have already spoken to the authorities about that."

"Have you indeed?... When I spoke to some people yesterday, they told me a rather different story – implying that the location of the lost aircraft, if it existed at all, was unknown."

"The damn blighters, well that completely surprises me. I had assumed that they might want to attempt to recover any remains from the wreckage," Ginger said.

"Me too...there may be much more to this story than meets the eye. So, if I were to show you a map would you be able to circle the general area?"

Ginger looked across to Ernest.

"What do you think?"

"I don't see why not. The location is hardly a secret anyway."

"Good man," Graham said. "I just happen to have a map in my attaché case."

With the location marked, Graham stood.

"Thank you both for speaking with me... as you seem reluctant to expose yourselves to any more publicity, I'll leave you two in peace."

"I wouldn't exactly say that Peters. Maybe a piece in a serious paper wouldn't be too bad. What do you say Ernest?"

"I imagine not Ginger, if it's what you really want."

Ginger turned his face back towards Graham, who had already found a notepad and pencil.

"So, Peters, what say we talk to you about the aircraft wreckage and then give our Yeti tale... what there is of it, to the Americans?"

"Sounds like a splendid compromise... and don't forget to squeeze those rascals for every last dollar."

"Indeed not, Ginger smiled.

With his interview concluded, Graham left the men in peace. Graham's mind had already slipped back to the wreckage and the Nazi insignia. He had seen terrible things in the war. As part of the 11th Armoured Division, he had been among the first troops to enter the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in April 1945. He would still wake up in a cold sweat following what he had seen there. He knew that whatever the aircraft was doing so far from home, the Nazis were up to no good. He could almost hear the sounds of gunfire, almost see the Nazi looters as they ravaged across Europe. Caught up in a sudden insight, he wondered if finding this wreckage was something of significant but inexplicable importance. The idea seemed preposterous, but had the Nazis ventured further afield than Europe in search of blood-stained treasure...? As far afield as Tibet? He could think of no other explanation.
Chapter Ten

By the miracle of the recent advances in modern aviation, Graham Peters was back in London to welcome the first days of a mild autumn. London was experiencing something of an Indian summer and so far, there was no trace of the customary foggy dampness that heralded the change of season. He entered the Custodian building through the large swinging glass doors and climbed the marble stairs up to the newsroom. He stood at the door for a moment to breathe in the atmosphere. Despite the deafening clamour and chatter of typewriters, the Custodian still stood as a citadel of civilisation in a world seemingly intent on destroying itself. Graham had been away for too short a time for there to be any real sense of nostalgia, but things had changed in the weeks of his absence. He waved a greeting around the room, acknowledging the faces of welcome that had been turned to him, but his eyes were drawn to the empty desk that Ralph Johnson used to occupy. His typewriter was still there, but its keys were covered in a sheen of dust. The machine lay paperless and silent as if it were still waiting for the man's return.

With a stab of guilt, Graham realised that he had not even been there for the funeral. He thought of Johnson's wife with sadness, _she must be in torment_ , he thought. He vaguely knew her from some long ago office party where they had briefly exchanged pleasantries. He remembered the blue dress with white polka dots that she wore. His memory told him she was devoted to her husband in that fussy, motherly way that some women show. _What was her name? Ethel was it?_ He thought he might send her some flowers.

"Peters old chap, welcome back... sound article on Everest by the way."

_Sound_ was effectively the highest praise that could be extracted from Bambridge, it was roughly equivalent to nine out of ten or above. The editor lunged across the newsroom and clasped Graham's hand. Never what you might have described as a slender figure, Bambridge seemed to have put on an extra half stone during Graham's brief absence. He had recently reached the stage, where he had been forced to make the decision on whether his waist sat above or below his swelling paunch. It appeared that he had chosen unwisely, and his waistband was now constrained by a pair of braces that seemed to be struggling with their allotted task. Graham pretended not to notice.

"Thank you, sir... other events seem to have rather put my piece into perspective," Graham said with an eye to Johnson's desk.

"Yes, indeed... Old Ralph Johnson was like a permanent fixture about the place. _He gave his honours to the world again, his blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace."_

Bambridge was apt to lurch into Shakespeare when he felt threatened by emotion.

"Henry VI?" Graham ventured.

"What? Mm, yes, well spotted. The old chap went out in style though, despite his untimely end. Did you hear that his coverage of the Coronation won the Featherstone prize?"

"Really? No, well that's excellent. He would have been over the moon... I knew I had left the story in a safe pair hands, but I never quite understood how fragile those hands had become."

Bambridge nodded.

"None of us did... it was quite a shock... died just there in front of my eyes."

Shakespeare did not come to Bambridge's aid this time, and he sniffed hard.

"Come up to my office Peters, and tell me about this new story of yours... it had better be something extraordinary if you expect the Custodian to fund another trip to the nether regions of Nepal."

Bambridge sat behind his large mahogany desk and pulled a bottle of scotch from one of the lower drawers. He waved it as a form of invitation.

"Just a small one, sir... thanks."

Bambridge smiled at his senior journalist. Somehow, despite his best intentions, a smile always seemed to bring out a sinister aspect to Bambridge's expression.

"How did you get on in Nepal?"

"It's no holiday destination... once you get out of Kathmandu, anything that you might call modern infrastructure is notable by its absence. It's a magnificent place to look at, but you can forget all about western creature comforts. The mountains are glorious but desolate, dangerous and the lowlands are lush, but steamily humid."

"You were not enamoured by the country then?"

"I loved it..."

Bambridge laughed, which set his paunch wobbling.

"So," he said, as he swallowed a mouthful of his first of the day pre-lunch whiskies, "something about a Yeti sighting wasn't it?"

"The story is coloured by that, but it's not my main interest... These two rather hapless chaps, textile agents by all account, stumbled over the wreckage of an aircraft... The estimated flight path, from the limited information I have, would suggest that it came from somewhere in Tibet. You might imagine the scenario, caught in a storm with poor visibility, a mountain looming from nowhere..."

"So, a crashed aircraft... is that all?"

"No, not quite... with the treacherous weather across the mountain passes, a downed plane is possibly not so surprising, but this one was rather unusual.

"In what way?"

"Well, if reports are to be believed, it was painted up with Nazi insignia."

"Was it ? By god... now that is rather unusual."

"Yes, as far as we know, the Germans were never officially in central Asia during the war, but this find, if it can be verified, will turn our understanding on its head; who knows where it may lead us?"

"So, you want to go poking around the mountains looking for an explanation?"

"Eventually... possibly, but I need to do some research first to see if I can justify going back to Nepal."

"Yes, I can see that... and the Yeti nonsense... tell me you don't believe it."

"My journalism training makes me sceptical, but I have an open mind on the matter. It seems that Tenzing and Hillary also reported seeing some large unexplained footprints while scaling Mount Everest, and there are numerous other sightings by reputable western witnesses. Some of them are quite compelling."

"If you say so... in my opinion, any westerner who goes wandering in the high Himalayas for fun is certifiable by definition, and that puts a large question mark over any of their testimonies."

Graham smiled and took a sip of his drink, as requested, Bambridge had poured him a rather a meagre measure.

"Well, you have a point sir... if there really is a species of hominid wandering the mountains, you might expect that there would be some hard evidence by now. But, there's no doubt that many of the locals simply accept their existence as a matter of fact. The two textile agents are certainly convinced that there is something exceedingly strange out there."

"Did they report any flying saucers?" Bambridge said with a snort, as he adjusted the chafing tension on his braces.

"I don't believe so..." Graham said, quietly sidestepping the provocation.

"You're an impressive journalist Peters... got your eyes on my seat, no doubt."

"Not at all, sir, I'm quite content as I am."

"Mm... fact is, what with Ralph Johnson's sudden demise, I've been thinking of my own mortality... which has led me to consider the advantages of an early retirement. I would want to pass the position on to someone I could trust to keep up the standards in as much as I would have any say in the matter. I'm sure Lord Belvedere would seek my opinion on the succession."

"It's nice of you to consider me, sir... maybe closer to the time, I could be persuaded to consider a promotion."

"The time may not be all that far away, but be discrete with this information old man."

"Indeed."

"Very well Peters... do your research on the downed aircraft and come back to me with something concrete... there may be funds available if the story has any decent legs."

Graham walked out of the office into a bright day and hailed a cab to the Marlborough Reference Library. It was good to be back in the familiarity of London, especially in the rain-washed sunlight of early autumn. He told the driver to drop him at the corner, paid his fare and walked along the familiar flagstones towards the library, then hesitated. Of all the libraries in London, he had come here... the reason was not so hard to find; Queen Mary University was just ten minutes away, five if you were in a rush. He checked his watch, it was a little after twelve thirty. With a sudden burst of energy he dashed into the busy road, dodging the dusty fumes of a double decker and found sanctuary on the pavement. From there he turned not towards the library, but in the opposite direction.

Graham walked alongside the stone wall with its overhanging sweep of rhododendrons until he came to the entrance. He hesitated for a moment, with unexpected nervousness, before entering the manicured grounds. In the distance was a stand of Elms, spreading the broad pale green canopy tinged with autumn gold. A young woman was walking away from him, towards the buildings. She was wheeling an old iron framed bicycle along the concrete path and seemed, Graham thought, to be distracted by something, lost in her own thoughts. The cycle's handlebar basket was overflowing with books, and she paused to pick up one that had made a bid for freedom.

As he slowly shifted his gaze across the ornamental pond, he saw her palely reflected in the dappled water. It was her favourite spot, a place where Graham knew she could usually be found on a fine day at lunch time. She sat in her customary seat, a tin of sandwiches resting demurely on her knees. Graham felt certain now, the link between them could survive the petty quarrel. He was drawn to her as if by some invisible silken thread that was impossible to break free of. Not that he had the slightest desire to be free of Loretta. He thought of the softness of her skin, the tentative almost shy passion of their all too infrequent love making, but mostly he thought of the trivial quarrel that had driven her to ignore him.

Quietly, almost stealthily, he moved across the gardens like a fox approaching a hare and came and sat beside her, neither of them spoke for an eternity. They might have been two strangers... except for the crackle of electricity that sparked about them. A flurry of pigeons settled by their feet in expectation of some crumbs.

"I'm sorry, it was my fault..." they both said at the same moment, as if it had been a choreographed and rehearsed performance.

They both laughed and turned to each other.

"I've missed you Loretta."

"Me too..."

She pulled at the delicate gold band of her watch, so that she could see its tiny face...

"I'm sorry, I really have to get back," she said, "but come to my place this evening... I'll cook, and we can talk."

Graham took her hand and kissed her fingers. The reunion had been brief, but splendid in its resolution. He watched her walk away and studied the achingly familiar sway of her elegant hips as if he were a water colourist trying to capture her essence. Then as she turned her head, for one last lingering look at him, he felt a huge weight of regret lift from his shoulders.

The Marlborough Reference Library was housed in an eighteenth-century stone building, the interior filled with arches and buttressed columns that had seen generations of scholars riffling the stored knowledge. He walked silently through the dusty shadows, browsing the ancient timbered shelves until he came to the modern history section. His problem was he didn't really know what he was looking for. He was searching for an explanation, of why a Luftwaffe aircraft might be flying over the Himalayas during the war. But the question was too vague. He pulled out a selection of books that detailed the aircraft the Germans had used in the period and took them to a table by the windows, under the intense gaze of one of the librarians. What he needed was a starting point, a fulcrum that would lever him to where he could pose more pertinent questions. The most likely aircraft, from the vague description he had been given, seemed to be a Junkers JU 52. Apparently, it was the work horse of choice for the Luftwaffe during the period. He pencilled the name into his notebook, and as he looked up, he saw the flash of the librarian's glasses. She seemed to be watching him suspiciously, as if his interest in German aircraft was an altogether perilous pursuit.

The Nazi officer was pacing back and forth nervously, in a windowless and dimly lit room. The cream painted concrete walls reverberated with the hollow sound of his impatient footsteps. There might have been a slight limp detectable in the cadence of his steps. Beyond the acrid stale tobacco and mildew, the room smelled of ink and pencil shavings. He paced and waited, despite his anticipation of the call, he startled nervously when the telephone's bell finally consented to sound. He pulled off his wire-framed glasses and pinched at the tender spot between his watery grey eyes.

"Yes... what did he say? I see, but he will comply despite his reservations... very well, we can expect little more. Send SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus the dates and relevant details."

Then a more sinister edge entered his voice:

"Make sure none of this becomes public knowledge... you will be acutely aware of the consequences to you, should you default... do you understand?"

Without waiting for an acknowledgement of his threat, he slammed down the solid Bakelite hand piece and turned his face to the portrait on the wall. It was an inexpensive framed print, a copy of a recent oil painting. It showed a small man with a toothbrush moustache, posed in a typical arrogant stance. Across the dark eyes, the artist had managed to capture, possibly unintentionally, the unmistakable look of incipient insanity. The officer put on his hat, stood to attention and saluted.

"Mein Führer," he said, as if the simple act of reverence might absolve him of any personal responsibility.

Graham walked up the creaking stairs to Loretta's tiny flat. He could smell the comforting aroma of home cooking. Simple English cooking, he hadn't realised how much he had missed it.

"Hello you," she said, as she drew him back into her world with a delicate kiss, that held the promise of much more.

"Something smells good," Graham said, as he took shelter under the cover of banal small talk.

"It's just shepherd's pie..."

"Shepherd's pie is just what the doctor ordered... I assume shepherds are no longer rationed," he said.

Loretta laughed.

"Actually, I got mine freshly skinned on the black market. A little man I know, trades from down a side street off Portobello Road."

"I think I know the chap... he sells the finest toads in all of London."

"Toads?"

"Well, you know, I have an insatiable fondness for toad-in-the-hole."

"Now you're just being silly," Loretta said and laughed at the shared absurdity.

Graham took her face in his hands and silenced her with another kiss, this one long and lingering, tasting faintly of peppermint and half-forgotten regret.

"I think there's some gin in the cupboard if you'd like a drink," Loretta said, as she turned back to her pan of boiling carrots.

"I meant to bring wine, but somehow never got around to it..." Graham said. "Do you have any tonic?"

"No, sorry... the budget this week is a little stretched."

Graham had once made the mistake of offering to help with her finances, he would not be approaching that territory again.

"I could nip out and get some."

"No," she said with a creaking voice. "Don't leave me darling, not now you're here..."

She drew her arms round him.

"I won't."

"I mean never... never leave me again."

"I didn't leave you, it was just a business trip... Loretta, I left a lot of messages for you before I went..."

"I know, I know... I was angry at the time, and by the time I came to my senses you had gone. I started to hate you, until I realised that I didn't hate you at all... quite the contrary."

"But, you still won't say the word... you've never quite said that you love me Loretta."

"Haven't I darling?"

She rested her cheek against his chest and pulled him tight against her.

"Pour me a drink Graham, just a splash."

Graham reached up, to the top shelf of the dresser and pulled down two long stemmed glasses. A present from her mother, they were really meant for wine. After he had poured two modest measures, the gin bottle was still half full... definitely not, half empty.

"The fact is, I may be going back to Nepal," he said suddenly.

Loretta made a face like a child on the verge of tears...

"No, don't upset yourself, if I do go and you can arrange your sabbatical, I'll pay for you to come with me... if you want."

"Oh, I do want."

"I thought you might, dear heart. When I was out there with the Everest story all put to bed, I stumbled on a couple of chaps who had made this rather odd discovery in the Himalayas."

"What discovery?"

She had moved away from him now, resting against the bench top, sipping at the rim of her glass with her eyes lowered. She was wearing a dab of the too expensive perfume he had bought her for her last birthday, something she rarely did, _it must mean something,_ he thought.

"Well, the discovery... there are two things, both unconfirmed as yet, one of which is the wreckage belonging to a Nazi aircraft."

"I know nothing about aircraft darling, but that sounds rather odd... Did the Nazis ever venture that far afield?"

"The accepted wisdom on the matter is no... but, they certainly must have done if the sighting is confirmed."

"So, what were those disreputable Nazi chaps doing in the Himalayas?"

"That's the question, I doubt if it was any form of charity work."

"No... and the other thing?"

"It seems that the two men may have encountered a Yeti."

She repeated the word Yeti, as if it were a forged five-pound note she was holding up to the light, in search of a watermark.

"Now I know you're joking."

"Not at all... I have no reason to doubt the story of the aircraft, but I will admit to sharing your suspicion of the Yeti reports... however, I thought that looking into the possibility might be right up your street, so I could justify taking you along as an expert researcher."

"I'm not an expert darling, I'm a middling competent anthropologist that's all, and what my scientific training has taught me is to be sceptical. The more extraordinary the claim, the more extraordinary the proof has to be."

"Yes, but imagine if you were the first person to uncover some scientifically valid evidence proving the existence of these mythological creatures, a species new to science, a species that may even be related to us."

"I can't deny that it would be earth shattering, if a little unlikely. My original interest in going with you was in doing some fossil hunting; there are so few western scientists who have been in the area that there was a decent likelihood that I might have stumbled on something of interest... but show me a Yeti in the flesh, or even a decent photograph, and you will have all my attention."

"Don't I have that already?"

"Maybe..." Loretta said with a flirtatious smile. "Now come and eat, I'm ready to dish up."
Chapter Eleven

Graham woke to the sound of an unseasonal thrush, piping from the depths of his rather overgrown small garden. As was often the case, his first thoughts of the day seemed coloured by contemplation of Loretta. At times, the image of her would spring up in him without warning and this morning a sudden surge of yearning for her dragged him from his bed. He stood before his window, scratching his unshaven face, naked apart from a pair of threadbare boxer shorts. His gaze fell down onto the middle-class garden that should have been blessed with neatly clipped lawns and trimmed hedges. Graham had little time in his busy life for such niceties, nor quite the motivation to employ someone else to do the work.

There was a persistent drizzle which had settled over London. It had started in the early hours of the morning and had left a sheen of distortion on the window pane, rendering the view into something resembling an impressionist painting. It gave the scene from the window an imagined charm which it hardly deserved. After long days of sun the gentle rain was not totally unwelcome, though its arrival was possibly untimely. A sudden gap in the clouds sent a wedge of wet sunlight onto the dripping roses that somehow managed to flourish, despite the neglect he lavished on them. He had meant to cut some for Loretta yesterday, but had somehow let the opportunity slip.

The first stop of his bustling day was once again at the Marlborough Reference Library. On arriving, he looked up from under the dark rim of his umbrella at the imposing stone facade, and then climbed the wetly shining steps. He shook the drops of water from his umbrella and carefully rolled it up, before once more pushing through the familiar broad entrance doors. It smelled vaguely of wet dog inside, though any supporting evidence of the presence of dogs was scant. He walked up to the librarian's desk, its constantly lit reading lamp shaded by a green glass cover seemed to cast everything in the vicinity with a rather unearthly green shimmer. He recognised the woman from the scowl she had given him on his previous visit. Perhaps he was being unkind, but he saw her as a rather severe woman, in both her manner and appearance, bringing to mind something resembling a Wagnerian tragic heroine – without quite the portliness nor indeed the horned helmet. The sound of his steps caused her to raise her bespectacled eyes from the box of index cards she appeared to be wilfully randomising. As the librarian's focus adjusted, there was instant recognition of him reflected in her dark, all seeing eyes, but no smile of welcome.

"Yes," she said.

"Good morning... My name is Graham Peters... I'm a journalist at the Custodian," he said a little defensively. "I wonder if you would be able to help me with some research?"

"That's why I am here," the woman said rather disarmingly.

There was something a little unconvincing about the smile she finally yielded. It resolved itself into something more akin to a sneer, which rather confirmed Graham's original opinion of her. Graham smiled warmly back at her, as if in demonstration of how a genuine smile might be achieved. She returned nothing but a blank expression.

"I understand you have a substantial collection of technical data, archived newspaper articles and that sort of thing."

"We do, young man... our earliest records date back to the mid-seventeen hundred. Anything earlier was lost in the rather serious fire of 1736," she said, as if the more than two centuries old fire had been something of a personal tragedy.

"We won't need to go back that far. Actually, I'm interested in something a little more recent... specifically anything referring to Tibet, in the late thirties or early forties."

"Tibet?"

She jotted down the name on a small notepad, even though her sharp mind was unlikely to forget it. "Anything about Tibet in particular?" she asked, as she retrieved a small lace edged handkerchief from the cuff of her beige cardigan and dabbed at some errant moisture on her lower lip.

"Anything that strikes you as particularly unusual, but especially if there is a German connection or indeed reports of crashed aircraft."

Graham had no idea why, but the look she gave him was almost one of horror.

"Is that a problem?" he asked.

"No... the term _unusual_ is open to considerable interpretation, though I have had more difficult research requests, it's simply a matter of checking the cross referenced data cards... Do you require everything we have, or can I refine the search a little for you?"

"Everything, if it's no trouble... the fact is, I'm not really sure what I'm looking for, so a broad sweep would be best. Any references to Junkers JU 52's reported missing in the same period would be useful."

"Very well."

"Junkers are a German built aircraft," he added by way of clarification.

"Yes, I understand that Mr Peters. I seem to remember Ernst Zindel and his team designed the JU 52 at the Junkers works at Dessau... I expect there will be many tragic losses reported as a consequence of the war effort."

Graham was suitably impressed by the depth of her knowledge, possibly it was not so surprising for someone who was a professional researcher.

"When do you need this?" the librarian asked, the words presented almost as a challenge.

"As soon as you can manage it," Graham said with a smile.

"Could you come back tomorrow at a similar hour? This is going to take me some time."

"Of course... thank you so much Miss Mosley," he said reading the name from the desktop nameplate.

He turned away from the desk, but he could not help noticing, as he struggled with the bindings of his umbrella, that as soon as he was out of earshot, Miss Mosley picked up her telephone and made what appeared to be a call of some urgency.

The cobbled courtyard was bounded by a substantial wall, some nine feet tall. There was a distinct lack of elegance to its recent construction, but it was suitably functional. A double strand of barbed wire had recently been lain across the top. While the extra layer of security would not stop a determined intruder, the armed guards who constantly patrolled the enclosed area certainly would. At the far end facing the heavy iron entrance gates, was an imposing stone building that had started life as a manor house, when Germany was a very different and feudal country. The terracotta tiled roof was supported by a series of tall buttressing arches from which, now hung bright red swastika emblazoned hangings and supporting flags that curled and gyrated in the light air. Illuminated by the low rays of evening sunlight, the flags almost looked like flames licking at the building.

The urgent sound of a revving motorcycle could be heard from the top of the hill. It was approaching at speed and the guards at the main gate turned to watch as a young uniformed man drew his BMW R71 to a halt at the heavy iron gates. He lifted his goggles up onto his steel helmet.

"I'm not too late, am I?" he said breathlessly to the disinterested sentry.

"The Commandant is still here, if that's who you want... ground floor along the main corridor... then left; it's the large door at the end."

"Yes... I've been here before, thanks."

The messenger quickly pulled off his gauntlets, and then reached into his courier satchel and withdrew a large brown envelope. He left his machine cooling noisily by the gate, and ran across the cobbles, eager to complete his mission and be on his way. He raced up the steps, taking them two at a time until he had broached the entrance. His hand was still clutching the envelope, as if his life depended on it. Once inside, he continued down a series of echoing corridors until he stopped outside a heavy wooden door. A brass plaque had been recently affixed which read _SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus._ The messenger straightened himself, brushing away as much of the road dust from his uniform coat as he was able. He took some deep breaths to steady himself before knocking slightly too diffidently against the timbers... After a moment he knocked again.

"Yes... yes, come in for Christ's sake."

The voice was muffled by the heavy door, but the irritation in the words were clear enough. The door opened with smoothly oiled precision and revealed to the young soldier's eyes a room of some splendour. The aged wood panelling was adorned with art work, which to the soldier's untrained eye appeared old and therefore, by definition, rather valuable. The floor was hushed by a plush and heavily patterned carpet in a rich plum colour. Only, the violence of the bright red flags that were now thought to be necessary, jarred with the old-world elegance. At the far end of the room was a heavy, ornately carved desk behind which sat an officer of the Reich, SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus.

"Come in man, don't stand there like some idiot yokel... what do you have there?"

He waved to the messenger with an impatient gesture for him to approach. Kraus was a man of inflated ego coupled with extreme stoicism, many observers would place him balanced dangerously on the edge of psychopathy. Such a combination made him ideal as an SS officer. It might be said, that he was born to such a career; as a child he had been much taken by the duelling scar on the portrait of one of his ancestors. He felt that such a scar would make an impressive addition to his own cheek, and taking up his father's razor one day, he stood before the bathroom mirror and sliced the sharpened steel deeply into the cheek under his left eye. His mother became almost hysterical when she discovered her ten-year-old son covered in blood. The bleeding was not fully staunched for two days, but the young Kraus was content with his handiwork.

The soldier saluted and then marched forward to stand at attention before the desk.

"I have a message, sir, from Reichsführer-SS Himmler. It is marked urgent, sir."

"Have you, damn your eyes."

The officer leaned forward and snatched the envelope with an unnecessary level of ferocity that surprised the young soldier into a flinch.

"Very well, you may go," Kraus said with an irritated wave of dismissal.

SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus was not a man with whom a subordinate could enjoy a convivial conversation.

The messenger saluted, then turned and made his way back to his motorcycle. There was something about the place that set the young man's nerves on edge, and he was pleased to be on his way as he kicked the 750cc engine into life again and slipped the goggles over his eyes.

Kraus examined the envelope. Along with the slight disfigurement of oily fingerprints, it bore Himmler's personal seal across the words _Top Secret_ and _Urgent_. He took up the heavy ivory handled paperknife that lay on his desk and slit the envelope open with the precision of a surgeon opening a man's chest.

"What does the infernal man want now?" he said though no one was there to hear his words.

In fact, he had rather a good idea of what the message would contain...

There had been a small charge levied for the search at the Marlborough, however, the quantity of the material he had been given more than made up for it. It had all been efficiently presented in a large folder, tied neatly together with string. Miss Mosley had suggested that there may be some additional cuttings when she could find the time to locate them. Graham now sat at his office desk back at the Custodian and began the long job of trying to make sense of it all.

There was a list of Junkers that were fully accounted for, and therefore, after a cursory glance were of little interest. Another list, which fell under the heading of _Missing_ , was of more interest. He spent a long time joining dots which were largely constructed by his imagination, and then ultimately abandoning that particular dead end and starting off on another tack. The afternoon came and went, the evening was threatening when he finally underlined a particular entry. Some of the missing aircraft were clearly not a fit and had been quickly dismissed, but the one he had finally chosen stood out, not for the information that was connected to it, but rather because of the lack of credible information. It was as if its disappearance had been intentionally side-lined into the shadows. He wrote down the reference number and rubbed the heels of his hands into his tired eyes. He had a dinner date with Loretta and he was determined not to be late. Before leaving for the office that morning, he had ventured out into the garden and had finally salvaged a few of the roses for her. They lay in a bucket of water on the floor by his desk, their perfume filling his office. He would give his research another hour before going directly to Loretta's flat to pick her up.

SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus opened the folded sheet. It was high quality paper, cream in colour, it felt thick to the fingers, like velum. The paper was heavily embossed with the SS logo. Quickly reading its contents, Kraus's expectation was soon substantiated. It held a typed confirmation that the previously posited expedition to Tibet was now approved. There were detailed instructions regarding the mission that he was required to head. His brief was to support Dr. Ernst Schäfer in his obscure ornithological researches, and to attend to other matters that were of more direct importance to the Third Reich. Although Schäfer had, possibly naively, accepted an SS commission, his own interest lay wholly in the scientific research in which he was engaged. However, from the perspective of the SS, his presence was a good cover for their military aspirations, which consisted of investigating a means of strategic access into India, and to search for weaknesses that might be exploited both there and in the surrounding States. The potential dangers emanating from a recently reawakened China were also to be investigated.

For Kraus, it was also an acquisitive mission during which he would take advantage of amassing anything that may be of value... if some small part of this were to fall into his own hands, then no one would be the wiser. The embarkation of the secret mission was designated for the 9th of May 1938, and although the planning was essentially complete, it left him little time to draw the remaining threads together. Kraus was unconcerned by the time constraints, he was an expert in delegation and was ruthless in extracting the last ounce of effort from among those unfortunates, on whom he lay his burden.

He let the sheet of paper fall to his desk, and his eyes lost focus as he stared into the emptiness of his room and envisioned the future.

Searching through the jumble of his papers, Graham found a reference to a German ornithologist who had been in Tibet during the thirties. He initially thought it to be of little relevance, just an item caught up in the broad net of the _German_ and _Tibet_ search parameters. The reference seemed to have been caught up in a bundle of other trivia, and it almost escaped his attention. He quickly scanned it before intending to dispose of it, among the growing pile of discarded information that now cluttered his desk. His eyes fell on the date 1938-1939. This sparked his interest. Reading more closely, it appeared that Schäfer had been involved in three expeditions to Tibet. One in 1931, one 1934 –1935, and a final one in the period 1938 –1939. The first two expeditions were led by an American by the name of Brooke Dolan. What really caught Graham's attention and sent a tingle down his spine, was who it was that had sponsored the third expedition. It was no less a person than Heinrich Himmler, with the full backing of the SS.

_What interest could the SS have had in ornithological research?_ He wondered. His considered conclusion was... _none at all_.

He checked his watch... Loretta would already be waiting for him. Leaving his desk in disarray, he left with instructions that no one should attempt to tidy his desk in his absence. Graham found Loretta waiting patiently in her flat, she was reading a novel and lifted her smiling eyes up to him as he entered.

"Not late am I?" he asked.

"No, I've only just finished getting ready."

Still in his work clothes, Graham felt slightly shabby by comparison. He took her down to the waiting car, he had managed to borrow a pre-war Daimler from his cousin, and as he opened the passenger door for her, he presented her with his roses. Loretta sniffed at their scent.

"They really are lovely, thank you darling."

Graham drove the heavy and rather imposing car, down from the city to the edge of the countryside, through the soft light of early evening. The rain had finally cleared, and the air was fresh smelling of hedgerows and mown grass. He had booked a table at the Celandine restaurant down by the river. After they had eaten, they took their coffee out onto the restaurant lawns and sat at a table. Loretta still clutching the roses. The sky was hazed over, and a gentle breeze stirred the surface of the river, a lone rower was sculling towards the bridge, his progress left small waves that were breaking in a listless line. As the light faded behind the trees, they watched him disappear into the shadows which had now begun to close over the lawns, like the fall of a stage curtain. The last sleepy diners were now shuffling away to their cars while Graham and Loretta sat with their heads resting together, their eyes heavy with drowsy contentment.

"Would you like me to come back with you tonight?" Loretta asked.

"That would be nice."

"We'll have to stop off for me to collect a few things from my flat."

"That's not a problem dear heart..."

"Good... I think it's time I showed you how much I missed you when you were away," she said with a little shy laugh.

"So, you think that you have found enough to justify a return trip to Nepal?" Loretta queried.

"Maybe not quite... I really need to get an understanding of what the Nazis were doing in the Himalayas."

"What do you think they were up to?"

"No one can really say, but if things had gone differently for them, if for instance the Americans had not been drawn from their wilful slumber into the war, then I can imagine the Nazis attempting to overrun India and expand their empire to a global scale."

"That doesn't bear thinking about darling..."

"No, but don't you see, from the safety of an historical perspective, the speculation would make an interesting piece of journalism."

"I suppose so."

"I'm still waiting for some newspaper cuttings that may shine some more light on things," Graham said.

"Let's hope they do."

A dark cloud of starlings coming from across the river, burst low over the lawns as they wheeled in perfect unison heading for their roost. They brought with them the cool scent of the water, their wings clattering like a sudden round of applause, excited and mocking.

Loretta pulled herself closer into Graham's warm embrace. He lifted her face closer to him and kissed Loretta's soft and beguilingly offered lips.
Chapter Twelve

Graham woke as the first sliver of day brought a ghostly paleness to the light blue curtained windows. His arm reached out for her, knowing that Loretta was still beside him. He lay for a while, listening to the gentle sound of her breathing. It had been the first time they had shared a bed for weeks, for months, since well before Graham had left for Everest. The rediscovery of each other in their moment of intimacy had revealed that none of their earlier passion had diminished. He lifted himself up on his elbow and looked at her pale face; her hair was splayed out on the pillow. The shape of her breast, exquisite, as it revealed itself through the satin of her nightdress, made the blood pump in Graham's throat. Loretta opened her eyes and smiled taking his arm.

"Hello," she said, in the soft slur of someone who has just woken from the depths of a peaceful sleep.

Graham found it a struggle to drag himself away from Loretta's soft embrace, but he had things to do. He slipped from beneath the covers and stood by the side of the bed, looking at her as she lay eyes closed again, still half asleep, and folded into the warmth of the covers. Graham felt he could no longer imagine life without her. A moment later she opened her eyes again, stretched out her arms and drew him slowly towards her.

"Did you think I'd put you out of my life?" she said. "Did you think, because of my silly tantrum, that I no longer loved you?"

"I was not sure what to think." he said.

Outside he could hear the familiar bottle-rattle of the milkman as he made his way up the avenue in the early morning half-light. Loretta stretched and tautened her slender body into a curve under the sheets, Graham thought that she looked like a marble statue; a Greek Goddess. Loretta folded herself against him and kissed him, evoking such passion that he had to pull away.

"I need to get to the office..." he whispered.

"Must you?" Loretta asked.

"Well, maybe I can be a little late for once..."

Eventually, the call of duty could no longer be resisted and now with his mind back on the Himalayan incident, he sat at his office desk trying not to think of Loretta.

He had almost completely exhausted everything that he could glean from the pile of cuttings and reams of information on his desk. Despite there being little evidence to support any of his propositions regarding the crashed aircraft, Graham felt, almost by the pull of some journalistic sixth sense, that there must still be something significant to uncover. Wandering up the stairs to the relative quiet of the editor's room, he tapped on the door and entered. Unlike his own office, Bambridge's room was an elegant place. Heavily carpeted and hushed from the clamour of the newsroom, it felt more like a gentleman's club than a place of work.

"Peters, I've been meaning to have a word..."

"I thought you might," Graham said.

"I know I gave you carte blanche to go after this story, but we can't go on forever without you digging up something concrete..."

"And you are suggesting that a Nazi plane crashed in the Himalayas, is not concrete."

"It may be, but only, and read my lips here... only if it leads to some significant intrigue. The story as it stands, is hardly worth a couple of columns tucked away near the sports pages."

Bambridge's contempt for the sport's pages was well known.

"Give me a few more days' sir. The fact is, I have already discovered that the SS had supported an expedition to the Himalayas in 1938... that can't be a coincidence."

"So, why didn't you mention this to me before?"

"I was hoping to be able to come up with something more substantial... "

"So, what sort of expedition was it?"

"I am reliably informed that it was... and hold on to your hat... an ornithological search."

"What... that's completely ridiculous."

"I know... Both of us are familiar enough with the activities of the SS, to understand that they would have scant interest in bird watching. I think world domination would have been more up their street... but, don't you see, sir?" Graham said, "This ornithology nonsense must have been a cover for something else, and I'm betting that when we discover what, it could be front page stuff."

"Very well, you've got my interest again, but even if you are right, you still haven't found enough for a serious exposé yet, and Peters, my patience is not inexhaustible."

"No, I fully understand that."

Lydia tapped on the editor's door.

"Sorry to interrupt, but there's a phone call for Mr Peters," she said.

"Very well Peters, you'd better go and take your call... you have your few more days, but don't make me regret my decision."

Graham made his way back down to the news room and picked up his telephone receiver.

"Good morning, Graham Peters..."

"Yes, this is Miss Mosley from the Marlborough, I have the newspaper cuttings you requested, shall I send them over or would you prefer to come and collect them?"

"Thank you so much Miss Mosley, I could do with some fresh air, I'll come straight away."

He spoke as if meeting her again would be a pleasure... it would not. Engaging with officious people in positions of minor authority was not a favourite pass-time of his, and Miss Mosley was an exemplar of the art.

He made his way to the library, the cab dropping him near the entrance. It was still only mid-morning by the time he marched up the steps to the library, nodding to a wiry man in his thirties waiting by the entrance doors. He wore a tobacco stained moustache, which seemed to cling perilously to his upper lip. The nod went unacknowledged, and Graham assumed that it was due to the man's hat being pulled down rather low over his eyes.

He found Miss Mosley still at her desk. In a moment of speculation, he amused himself by wondering if she were a permanent fixture, if she ever in fact went home. He was still smiling at the thought that she probably had a bed hidden away under her desk when she spoke to him.

"Ah Mr Peters... here you are... at last."

The woman seemed incapable of making even a simple greeting without there being some half hidden rebuke contained in her words. She handed over another folder as bulky as the first, with another of her less than convincing smiles.

"Thank you, Miss Mosley, this will be most helpful."

"I hope so... what is it you are trying to discover? If I may ask," she said, the words tumbling from her lips in her most casual tone, as if she were an expert practitioner in the art of small talk.

"There has been a recent discovery of a crashed aircraft in the Himalayas... I'm trying to make some sense of it."

"I see, that's quite fascinating. Let me know if there is anything further I can do."

"Thank you, I certainly will."

In order to get a little fresh air, Graham decided to walk back the short distance to the Custodian offices. It would take twenty minutes, at most, if he cut across Victoria Park. He walked under the dappling of the linden trees, across the acres of grass with its fresh mown scent and felt revived. Miss Mosley, though he hardly knew her, seemed to have the unerring ability to fill him with disquiet. Out here on an early autumn day with the warmth of summer hardly yet forgotten, he felt that nothing and no one could disturb his tranquillity _this was where he belonged_ , he thought, _the green and pleasant land of England..._ _not in some barren rocky place half way up a mountain and half a world away_. His eyes lifted to the plantings of horse chestnut and the elm avenue that led to more spinneys of hazel. Then suddenly, he had the strange sense that he was being followed; it may have been the sound of a footfall that was too indistinct to quite hear or a shadow caught in his peripheral vision. Each time he turned back, there was no one to be seen. Even so, he quickened his pace until he was back in his office.

Clearing a space on his desk, he delved into the new research documents. Once more he was looking for a needle in a haystack. He had the haystack but did not even know what the needle might look like. He put his head out of the door and called across the clamour of the newsroom to the office girl.

"Lydia... have you got a moment?"

She hurried over, always eager to please. Especially someone as engagingly handsome as Graham Peters. She was far too young for him, she mostly understood that, but a kind word from him was enough to make her day.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"Fancy helping me with a little research?"

"Yes, if you think I'm up to it."

"Of course, you are up to it... don't think just because you have a pretty face that I must assume you also have an empty head."

Lydia smiled at the compliment, her eyes falling shyly to the floor.

"So, what are we doing?" she asked.

Graham explained in the vague terms of his own understanding...

"We are looking for something unusual," he said.

"Can you be a little more explicit?"

"I wish I could Lydia... I want something that points to what the SS might have been up to in the Himalayas in the late thirties."

"The SS... how exciting."

He divided the documents into two piles giving Lydia one half of his desk, while he took the other. Reams of facts and figures, reports of totally unrelated things flashed before their eyes until finally, late in the afternoon Lydia drew his attention to something she had found.

"Is this the sort thing?" she asked.

Lydia held up a cutting, the headline of which read: _Tibetan Villagers Found Massacred._

"Show me," Graham said.

He read the article which had appeared in an English language edition of the Shanghai Times. It was clear that the villagers had been ripped to shreds by machine gun fire. The discovery had taken place sometime after the event, and no one had been held accountable, also the nearby monastery had been embroiled in whatever strange events had taken place.

"This could be it Lydia, well done. This is the sort of thing that the SS might have been up to... ornithology my eye. So, they named the village as _Sachri..._ see if you can find it in the atlas. _"_

Lydia heaved the large tome filled with large colour plates onto the desk.

"There doesn't seem to be an entry in the index, maybe it's too small a place to be included... I'll look directly at the maps... I don't suppose the article gives a map reference or anything."

"No, not exactly, we are out of luck there, but it does mention a province... hold on..."

Graham read the article again.

"Yes, here it is, it says that the village is in the eastern part of the Shigatse Prefecture... is that any help?"

"Hold on..." she ran her finger across the page. "Here it is, but it doesn't narrow things down much, the Shigatse Prefecture covers a huge area."

Graham moved over from his seat to examine the map.

"Is this the highest scale map in the atlas?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so..."

"Mm, well this isn't going to tell us much... how do you fancy a trip to the library?"

"Yes... but, I'm expected home..."

Graham checked his watch it was already nearly six.

"Oh, it is that the time already... I'm sorry to have kept you so long... I should be making tracks myself..."

He closed the heavy book.

"I think that's enough for one day Lydia, you can collect your things and slip off home. But tomorrow, I'd like you to call in at the Marlborough, and see if you can run this village to ground."

"I'll do it on my way in, if that's alright."

"That would be perfect... if you should have the misfortune of meeting Miss Mosley, let me know what you think of her."

"Miss Mosley?"

"She's one of the librarians..." Graham said. "I understand she slings a hammock under her desk for the night time hours... that, or she may hang upside down from the rafters."

Lydia laughed and tossed back her curls. She lifted her eyes up to him.

"You have the strangest, most wonderful sense of humour," she said.

"Do I?... Look, I really appreciate the effort you have made today, but I need to get away myself. My girlfriend is cooking for me tonight, and it would be more than my life's worth to be late."

"Your girlfriend... oh... I see, well in that case I'll be off home."

She gathered up her things before making for the door.

"Enjoy your evening then," she said.

"Lydia... thanks for today, you were a great help," Graham said.

She smiled sweetly, shyly in a curious and disarming way, showing her perfect shining teeth and left without speaking.

Graham made his own exit and stood for a moment on the steps with his raincoat slung over his arm. He looked out across the city and discovered a coolness to the breeze that made him pull on his gabardine mackintosh. He was still fumbling with the buttons when he saw the man on the corner. As Graham watched, the man took a deep drag from his cigarette and then dropped it on the pavement before crushing it out with the sole of his shoe. It seemed to Graham that he recognised the man but could not quite remember from where. He started along the flagstones, it was a modest distance to the Whitechapel tube station, and he would soon be home. For the first time since leaving home, he allowed himself to fall into thoughts of Loretta, but his pleasant reverie was short lived.

"Oi, you Peters?" the man said, as he pulled his trilby down so that his eyes could not be seen.

"Might be," Graham said. "What do you want?"

"Thing is, see... I've been asked to 'ave a word..."

"A word about what?"

"You've been stickin' your nose into a... situation in the 'imalayas."

"I have certainly been doing some research on the region. What does it have to do with you Mr..."

"Best if you just drop it, is my advice. There's some powerful men who wouldn't take kindly to..."

"Well, thank you for your concern, but that is not going to happen."

Graham started to walk away. He quickly made his way down the street and crossed by the imposing Lloyds bank building. There was a narrow walkway that made a convenient short cut to the tube station. As he came level, an arm came out from the shadows and grabbed Graham by his mackintosh collar and pulled him into the shadows, slamming him against the alley wall. The other man had joined them now, and Graham finally recognised him from earlier in the day, outside the Marlborough. Without warning, he lay into Graham's ribs with a knuckle duster. Graham swung a few punches, drawing blood from an ill guarded nose, but he stood no chance against two thugs. Eventually he sank to his knees and received a boot in the chest.

"Next time, you won't be getting up again... take my advice and abandon your investigation," said the second man, as he pulled out a handkerchief to stem the flow of blood.

He spoke with a slight accent, it might have been Polish or Scandinavian or... German.

Graham lay on the cold damp stone, and despite the discomfort he was surprisingly cheered by the incident. It meant that he had touched someone's raw nerve, and that he was on the right track. What he couldn't quite understand, was how these men knew about his involvement. Struggling to his feet, he pulled himself together and leaned against the wall until his double vision had abated. After five minutes, he ventured back out of the alley onto the main road. He walked a few paces back towards the bank and decided to treat himself to a cab home. He held up his arm and a few seconds later a cab pulled up.

"Blimey mate, you've been in the wars!" the driver exclaimed, as he took off into the evening traffic with the remains of a cigarette clenched between his lips.

"Just a difference of opinion," Graham said "You should see the other bloke."

"Yeah mate, bet there's a woman at the bottom of it... there's always a woman at the bottom of it... it's a bleedin' law of nature."

"You could be right," Graham said. "Just get me home will you."

He sank back into the seat and felt like vomiting, but he was constrained by a sense of propriety that had been drilled into him from an early age...

"Darling what's happened," Loretta said as Graham let himself in.

"One of the perks of the job."

"Oh Graham, who's done this to you?"

She took his arm and led him to the living room.

"Right... first things first, you need a stiff brandy, then I'll disinfect those cuts."

"No need to fuss... I'm..."

"I can see exactly how you are darling, and there's every need for me to fuss."

She stroked her cool hand across his hair and kissed his cheek before disappearing towards the kitchen. Rummaging through Graham's untidy cupboards, she found the brandy bottle and with a slight tremble of her fingers, poured a measure into a tumbler.

"So, what was it all about?" she called from the oven-warmed kitchen.

When she returned with the glass, Graham had his eyes closed.

"Here, sip at this, I'll be back with some disinfectant and cotton wool in a moment."

The brandy did revive Graham's spirits a little, and by the time Loretta had eased him from his coat and jacket, he was feeling much better. Loretta carefully unbuttoned his shirt as it was splashed with blood.

"It's mostly not my blood," he said, as if his male ego needed bolstering.

"Oh no, look at the bruises on your chest! Whoever did this is just evil... Graham, does this have anything to do with the crashed plane?"

Graham nodded.

"I'm afraid so. It was a couple of chaps who seemed to take exception to my interest in things Himalayan."

"Bastards," she said.

It was the first time he had heard her use strong language, and it made him laugh, just enough to make the pain in his ribs flare up.

"It's not as bad as it looks dear heart... I think I'll just go up and have a hot bath to soak away the aches."

"You sit there and finish your brandy, I'll run the bath for you. Are you going to be able to eat?"

"Is that roast chicken I can smell?"

"It is, but there's no obligation if you are not feeling up to it."

"Actually, my appetite is fine, must be the aromas emanating from the kitchen."

"I've done a full roast, all the trimmings, there's even apple pie."

"How did you find the time?"

"Well, as a post graduate, time can be a flexible beast... I'll go and run your bath."

"You are an angel dear heart... you'll see... I'll be as right as nine pence by the morning... will you still be here in the morning?" he asked.

"I couldn't possibly leave you like this darling, you might have a relapse and then who would be here to take care of you?"

"What would I do without you?"

"I suspect you'd be just fine," Loretta said.

Graham smiled up into Loretta's face.

"Any more of this?" he said holding up his empty glass.
Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, feeling much recovered from his encounter of the previous day, Graham arrived at work. His face was showing some bruising around his left eye, and he had a distinctly swollen lip, but the real tenderness still present across his ribcage was not visible to any observer. He still had a pile of cuttings to sort through and sat sideways at his desk riffling through the documents. By his elbow there was a half-drunk cup of coffee he had allowed to cool to the point that it was barely drinkable. He popped a couple of sour tasting aspirin into his mouth, and they melted unpleasantly on his tongue.

"Need any help?" Lydia said with bright eye and bushy tail, as she poked her head round the door. Graham gulped a little of the lukewarm coffee to take away the taste of the pain killers and raised his face to Lydia.

"Oh Mr Peters, what on earth has happened?"

She entered the room and hovered protectively over him.

"I'm fine Lydia... a couple of thugs took a dislike to me on the way home last night."

He drained the remaining cold coffee and swallowed with a slight shudder.

"What did they want?" Lydia asked.

"Just a couple of trouble makers... they ran off after I left one with a bloody nose."

"Oh dear, the streets just aren't safe anymore... it was never like this when I was a girl."

"Well, that's quite a statement for someone who is all of eighteen."

"Nineteen next month," she corrected. "My mother had been married a year at my age," Lydia added by way of emphasising her burgeoning maturity.

"So, don't you think things are getting worse on the streets?"

"It does seem so, but if you read the ancient Greeks they made similar comments – _things were never like this in my day_. I imagine we all see the past through a rose-tinted lens."

"Now you're just mocking... I was only trying to show a little sympathy."

"Not at all, I would never mock you Lydia, despite your lowly status in this august enterprise, I find you to be the brightest button in the newsroom."

Lydia blushed ever so slightly, a gentle pink flush on her neck that ran up to her cheeks.

"I've actually had a quiet word with Mr Bambridge about you, to see if we can't advance your career a little."

"Really?"

"I shouldn't actually have said anything about it, so keep quiet for the time being."

"I will... so..." she added, "As instructed, I went to the library first thing and managed... eventually, to find a map reference for this little village of Sachri, in the wilds of Tibet."

"Well done... did you encounter Miss Mosley at all?"

"We exchanged a brief collision of words, I rather see what you mean about her... I used to have a school mistress who was much the same, she managed to make my school life less pleasant than it might have been."

"Poor you... you were at boarding school?"

"I was at the time, but my father died unexpectedly, and after that we were not in a position to meet the fees."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drag up bad memories."

"No, don't worry, it's all in the past now; I seem to have survived the experience mostly intact..."

Graham nodded, not quite sure what to say, but Lydia continued on a brighter note.

"With reference to the librarian, I have to say, I saw no evidence of hammocks... or rafters, for that matter."

"Ah, you can't have been looking hard enough... listen, did you say anything specific to her about Sachri?"

"No, I just asked where I might find the most detailed atlas... why, should I have?"

"No, not at all, I just have a feeling the less Miss Mosley knows about my research, the better."

"Why is that?"

"Just put it down to my sixth sense."

Lydia shrugged.

"So, let's plot your map reference on our atlas, see if it fits with where I expect the village to be." Graham pulled open the heavy book to reveal the map of eastern Tibet they had been carefully studying the day before. Lydia took out her notebook.

"Right, according to the large scale map I found its 28.26° N, 87.52° E"

Using a ruler, she drew two faint pencil lines across the map and marked the point where the lines intersected.

"It looks to be fairly close to the Nepali boarder," she said.

"Mm, on the map it does, but it's still probably the best part of fifty miles of rugged mountainous terrain. That's good work Lydia, another piece of the puzzle falls into place."

"Thank you, Mr Peters... so, it all seems pretty quiet in the news room this morning... do you need any more help with your research?"

"If you're not busy, then you can carry on from where you left off yesterday, see if there are any more revelations to discover."

They had spent a fruitless hour searching until the unsorted pile was reduced to almost nothing. Without warning Graham's door unceremoniously burst open.

"Peters I was... good god! What's happened to you man?"

"Thugs..." Graham said.

"Damn well looks like it. Pardon my French Lydia," he said, noticing the girl for the first time. "What did the police have to say?"

"I hardly thought it was worth bothering the boys in blue... really sir, it looks far worse than it is." He spoke while trying to disguise the wince of pain, as he shifted his position on his chair. He turned towards Lydia.

"Do you think you might be able to find me another cup of coffee?"

"Of course, Mr Peters."

She sprang from her chair like a ministering angel and went in search of the uncertain liquid that passed for coffee amongst the newsroom staff. When she was out of earshot, Graham spoke to Bambridge again.

"Actually, the thugs in question were warning me off my interest in the Himalayas... I didn't want to say anything in front of Lydia. The fact is, I might have inadvertently put her at risk by sending her to the Marlborough this morning."

"How so?"

"I can't be absolutely certain, but the librarian whom I've been dealing with at the Marlborough, is the only stranger to know anything about my research... if I had to guess, then I'd say she is the one who alerted my attackers... I'm pretty sure Lydia is quite safe, but I don't want to worry her unnecessarily."

"Yes, I quite understand your concern about young Lydia's safety, but what involvement can the librarian possibly have."

"I haven't worked that out yet... maybe I'm completely wrong..."

"Mm... in any case, whoever is behind your assault, it means that you have managed to ruffle someone's feathers. That raises an interesting question... what is it, exactly, they don't want you to discover?"

"Well, that's the point... I have already stitched together some answers"

"Just run through what you have discovered so far Peters, just to clarify my own thoughts."

He dragged a spare chair across the floor, and easing his trouser waistband, plumped himself down.

"Well sir, we know for a fact that a Junkers went down in the mountains, and from what I can piece together, I think I have identified it. If I'm correct, then it went down in '38. In the information I uncovered, there was a vague reference to the possibility that a violent storm might have brought the Junkers down, but the aircraft remained missing, its position still not known at the time that the records were made."

"Missing until a few weeks ago..."

"I think so... I also know the SS were engaged in their so-called scientific research in '38, and lastly Lydia has, just last evening, uncovered a report from the Shanghai Times that spoke of a massacre in a small village in an area the SS were known to be active... and guess what...?"

"That also took place in 1938."

"Yes, it did."

"You are suggesting that the SS were responsible for the massacre?"

Bambridge shifted his ample weight on the chair that was possibly a little too small for him.

"I think so; it's hardly a long bow to draw."

"No, indeed... but what could their motivation be?"

"It seems there was a monastery the village supported that also appeared to have been subject to some disruption. I wouldn't mind betting the SS were after treasure of some sort."

"I can see that, but they wouldn't have gone all that way just to steal a few trinkets, there would be easier pickings closer to home surely."

"I have to agree sir, but what if their presence in the area had another motive, and the treasure hunt was just a little something on the side, maybe even something instigated by some rogue officer?"

"Mm, go on, so what might the other motive be?"

"I think they were surveying for the possibility of invading India."

"Good god... imagine if they had annexed India before the war had started... it would have changed everything."

"I know... but now I seem to have come to the end of the road with what information I can find at home. The fact is, if I'm to continue with this, I need to try and locate that monastery, and see what the monks have to say about events in '38."

"And what about those street thugs and the power behind them... are you not getting in too deep for you own safety?"

"I really don't think so... if I'm right about who has been tipping these people off, that person will no longer be in my loop. If you give me the go ahead, I will be out of the country in any case, and those particular thugs will be left high and dry. Of course, they may only be the tip of an iceberg... I have no way of knowing how big their organisation is in London."

"Sounds like out of the frying pan and into the fire, if you ask me."

"I'm prepared to take the risk."

"Well, I have to admire your doggedness Peters, but what I don't understand is what interest any of this can be to these damned thugs who attacked you... just what sort of organisation are you thinking of ?"

"I have very little idea myself yet, and I can't imagine what motivation they have, but what I'm convinced of is that despite all that happened during the war years, there are still more than a handful of Nazi sympathisers, festering away across the world and even, I fear, in this isle."

"You think so, Peters?"

"I know so... and in fact think I met a couple last evening."

"Mm, I thought we had given those Nazi barbarians a bit of a spanking... didn't expect them popping up again so soon... not in this country, in any case."

"Let's speculate for a moment... something was going on in Tibet in '38 that still has a relevance for someone or some organisation today, and maybe that interest is centred or affiliated in England... whatever it is, I'm convinced that it has something to do with the SS activity in Tibet."

"I can't argue with your logic... so, where to from here? I'm beginning to think we should contact the authorities."

"There is still no real evidence of anything yet, nothing really to tell them, nothing that would stand up in court. I doubt that informing the authorities would do anything beyond muddying the waters of our own investigation."

"You could be right Peters, so what do you want to do?"

"Well sir, I would like to make another trip out to Nepal. I made friends with a local when I was out there recently. I'm sure he will help me make the journey across the pass into Tibet and up to the monastery... from there, I will have to play it by ear."

"It's a hell of a trek from Kathmandu across to Tibet."

"Yes, I know. I intend engaging my acquaintance as a guide, I know the man well enough, he is a very reliable chap and his charges, by western standards, are quite modest. He has some suitable transport that should be able to get us up into Tibet... Now that we have located the village, I can estimate the journey is likely to take four or five days. The terrain is very rugged, with little in the way of roads."

"Mm... seems you have this all worked out. Are the Chinese allowing westerners across the border into Tibet? Relations are stretched to breaking point following our involvement in the Korean war.

"I have not really explored that... I believe that the monastery is rather remote, certainly according to the Shanghai Times report, the location is well away from the main centres and relatively close to the border with Nepal. I doubt that we will encounter any Chinese. If necessary, I am quite willing to cross the border covertly."

"Are you indeed? I'm not sure the Custodian should put itself in a position of sanctioning illegal border crossings."

"If you don't ask how I crossed the border, then I won't tell."

"The devil you won't... I can't help feeling that you are drifting into dangerous waters Peters."

"Look, sir, this story has really got under my skin... especially since those morons attacked me yesterday. If I can't chase this up under the Custodian banner, then I may have to take my chance as a free agent."

Bambridge narrowed his eyes.

"I don't want to lose you Peters, but I don't like to hear threats like that."

"I'm sorry, it was not meant as a threat... my preferred choice would be to continue working for the Custodian... in my view, it is the best paper in Britain today... but, if I can't..."

"I get the message... fact is, if I were your age I might be inclined to tag along for the ride...very well, you can make the trip, but if you drag the paper's good name through the mud then I'll crucify you."

"It's a deal... there's just one other thing..."

"What now?"

"You remember that part of the original intrigue involved a supposed encounter with a Yeti?"

"How could I forget?"

"Well, I would like to take a highly trained anthropologist with me, to see if she can shed any light on that aspect."

"She...? Isn't that rather sumptuous young lady of yours an anthropologist?"

Graham just smiled.

"You'll be the death of me Peters." Bambridge said with a barely disguised smile on his face.

"Seems you have me over a barrel... just make sure this is all worth it."

As he left Graham's office he almost collided with Lydia, who had found it necessary to make a fresh pot of coffee.

"Oops," she said, as she expertly avoided the collision with hardly a drop spilled. "There's fresh coffee if you would like a cup, sir."

"Yes, bring a cup up to my office will you... I'd like a chat anyway. I've been hearing good things about you Lydia, maybe we should talk about your future at the Custodian."

Graham made a telephone call to Loretta, it only took him three attempts before the university managed to locate her and they were connected.

"Hello dear heart. It seems I have the approval to venture forth once more," he said.

"To Nepal? So, those gentlemen yesterday did not succeed in putting you off?"

"Quite the opposite."

"How are you feeling now you are back at the coal face?"

"I'm fine, stop fussing... That was the good news, now here's the really good news,... I managed to convince Bambridge that I needed an anthropologist on board."

"Really?... So, I can come and the paper will pay?"

"Yes... if you can make the arrangements at your end."

"It's very sweet of you to do all this for me Graham; just let the university try and stop me... Actually, I've been manipulating my commitments recently in the hope of making the trip, and I already have the full support of Professor Roberts."

"Good... but, you have to remember that this won't be a holiday... nothing like it. You can forget all about skirts and heels. This will be boots and trousers territory, sleeping in the open, eating when we can."

"I've done field research before darling. Remember my excavations at Luxor?"

"Yes, but the Nile valley is hardly the Himalayas..."

"No, I think I know what to expect... I really am up for this Graham."

"Alright, just checking... look, I have arrangements to make... is your passport in order?"

"Yes, it is, I renewed it for our weekend trip to France in the spring."

"Good... well, I'll see you tonight... at my place?" he suggested.

"Am I invited to spend the night?"

"You are such a wicked temptress."

"I know," Loretta laughed. "My mother always told me that I would come to no good."

"Did she? How awful."

"I think she was only joking... maybe... with Gloria it was sometimes hard to tell."

Graham had briefly met Loretta's mother, Gloria, in the garden of their family home. Mrs DeVerre was quite unlike Loretta. She was rather stocky and wore an excess of deep red lipstick. Her hands were manicured, but her fingers still seemed to resemble slender uncooked sausages. He remembered the two curled strands of blonde hair that she kept pushing back behind her ears when she spoke to him, and her languorous walk under the light sway of her summer dress. She seemed a woman who was dissatisfied with what life had brought her and had ultimately found her solace in the sherry bottle.

Two days later, Graham's cab stopped briefly outside Loretta's flat on the way to Heathrow. She was waiting on the pavement for him with several, full to the brim, soft bags. This was her last chance to wear anything elegant for a long time, and she stood in a white blouse made of some diaphanous stuff falling over a black skirt, tight and as darkly lustrous as a second skin. A pale pink scarf was wrapped loosely across her shoulders, and as she moved towards him it billowed in the light air. She stopped in front of Graham and lifted her white rimmed sunglasses up into her hair.

"Not been waiting too long?" Graham asked.

"No, I came down to wait as soon as you called... Not over-dressed am I?" she asked, as some sort of innocent provocation.

"That depends on the impression you are trying to make... maybe your mother was right about you after all Loretta." she laughed and took his arm.

The cab headed towards the Great South-West Road, and the new London airport that was not yet a decade old. After checking in, they sat together in the departure lounge filled with the nervous excitement and anticipation that the prospect of a long journey always brings. By now, Graham's bruised ribs had made a rapid transition from agony to little more than a mild discomfort. There was little to show, just a little fading bruising. Clearly, his assailants had known what they were about... maximum discomfort with minimal corroborating evidence. Not that Graham had any intention of being caught up in a long-winded police investigation, the incident now sat firmly in his past.

"Looks as if we have the best part of an hour to kill before we board the Constellation. Do you want a drink or anything?" Graham enquired.

"Maybe some coffee would be nice."

"There's a café over there," Graham said, waving vaguely towards his left.

The chrome and glass café was full of air hostesses, grabbing a quick coffee and cigarette or two before their next flight. Graham and Loretta took their coffees to an empty table in the corner by the large glass window. They were playing a Frankie Laine song: _High Noon_ from some hidden speakers... _Do not forsake me oh my darlin'..._

"You look a little pale dear heart, is everything alright?"

"Well... the fact is, there is something I need to tell you."

Graham found her words rather disturbing _something to tell me_... He braced himself for some cataclysm.

"Go on," he said with a measure of disquiet, "spill the beans."

"Well, the thing is... I've never flown before, and I'm suddenly finding the prospect rather frightening."

Graham laughed.

"Is that all...? I thought you were going to tell me that you were pregnant or something."

"Graham... really!" she scolded.

"Sorry... look, you'll be fine... crossing the Channel in choppy seas is a far worse experience, and you took that in your stride."

"Yes, but this is so much further... all the way to Beirut in a single day... it hardly seems possible."

"I know, but all you have to do is sit back and enjoy the experience, we'll get a break in Zurich, so we won't be in the air all day. In any case, dear heart, I'll be beside you all the way, and I promise I won't let any harm come to you."

"Won't you?"

"Certainly not."

They sat sipping their coffee. Frankie Laine had morphed unnoticed into Doris Day...

"Graham... would it have been so bad if I were pregnant?" she asked.

The words were spoken in a soft whisper, then leaning up to him, with wonderful tenderness she kissed him.
Chapter Fourteen

By the time that the Dakota started its descent into Tribhuvan, Loretta had become a confident and seasoned flyer. With the air of an intrepid explorer, she was now dressed for the part. Before taking the last leg from Delhi, Loretta had taken the opportunity to change into clothing more appropriate for their mission. In London she had raided the army surplus store on Broadway and had found several suitable pairs of combat trousers and a couple of military-style combat crew neck jumpers with leather patched shoulders and elbows, she thought them quite stylish in an anti-establishment sort of way. She also bought a fur lined parka jacket, some woollen gloves and two pairs of sturdy ankle length marching boots.

For her imminent arrival in Nepal she wore a pair of combat trousers and a heavy cotton long sleeved shirt in pale yellow. The only concession to her gender was a delicately patterned silk scarf hanging loosely round her neck, which she hoped might preserve a modicum of her femininity. It did. Graham wore a pair of freshly laundered Levis and a white T-shirt. He allowed the shadow of a smile to cross his face as he saw the obvious effort Loretta had made. He wondered how it was that some women could wear almost anything and still look like a fashion model, fresh from some avant-garde fashion parade.

From her window seat, Loretta watched the small hillside settlements slowly increase in number until they melded into the suburbs of Kathmandu. The green hills eventually giving way to the large flat built up area of the city. The touchdown on the grass runway to the southeast of the city, was possibly not as smooth as it could have been, but they soon taxied to where ground crew where ready to assist the passengers disembark. The flow through the customs check was smooth and rapid and soon they were bustled into the heat of a Nepali mid-morning. A throng of people were there, looking to take advantage of the visitors, selling local goods, offering tourists trips or rides into Kathmandu.

Graham took Loretta's arm.

"There," he said, managing to point and wave at the same time with his free arm. "The tall chap dressed in Khaki."

Loretta shaded her eyes from the sun with the flat of her hand.

"So, that is Aadarsh... mm, quite a handsome fellow."

"Careful darling, you are well and truly spoken for."

"Am I indeed?" she said with a chuckle.

Aadarsh had already noticed his friend and was making his way over to them with the haste of an old friend eager to renew a mislaid acquaintanceship.

"Aadarsh, you old blighter... Namaste."

"Swagat Cha Mr Graham...welcome back, I see you are still fluent in Nepali."

"Completely fluent in the three words you taught me," Graham laughed. "I see you must have got my telegram... I was a little uncertain."

"Oh yes... Kathmandu is not such a backward place as many believe," he said with a sparkle in his eye that spoke of a man completely at peace with himself.

"May I introduce you to Loretta," Graham said.

"Ah, Miss Loretta... Mr Graham talked of you often, but he failed to explain just how beautiful you are... I am Aadarsh and completely at your service."

He bowed in a way that showed respect but no trace of subservience.

"Oh, thank you...I can see that I will have to watch you Mr Aadarsh."

"Please do not misunderstand me Miss Loretta, I am a happily married man with many children."

"Aadarsh was in the Indian army during the war, fought with distinction in Burma alongside our chaps," Graham said.

"Is that where you learned your excellent English Aadarsh?"

"No, not exactly, I was lucky enough to win a scholarship and was educated in Delhi where I learned my English, my parents wanted me to become a doctor... I am afraid I have rather disappointed them in that respect."

The broad smile full of strong white teeth indicated that there was little regret in the alternate course his life had taken.

"Aadarsh is a genius with languages... remind me, how many are you fluent in?" Graham said.

"Oh no, you flatter me... no more than five or six... I have a small gift in that respect, for some reason languages come easily to me."

"And what do you do now?" Loretta enquired.

"When I am not engaged in smuggling people across the Tibetan boarder, I run a small company importing medical supplies, but my services as a guide are also for hire to anyone who can pay my modest fees. Now come, a delicate flower such as yourself, should not be standing in the heat... your transport awaits."

He led them to a dusty Willys jeep, still painted in its army green livery. He had never successfully explained how, but he had somehow managed to acquire it during his war years and had been able to get it shipped to Kathmandu. Mechanically, it had been meticulously maintained but offered little in the way of passenger comforts. The flimsy canvas roof had, however, been secured and offered a little shelter from the elements. Although the temperature was in the high seventies with bright sun playing down on them, the monsoon season was not quite over, and heavy rain could still strike at any moment.

Loretta was carefully seated in the back of the Jeep with the luggage. Aadarsh took Graham to one side and spoke in a hushed tone.

"We, are men of the world Mr Graham... but my wife is a rather conservative woman, I have told her that Loretta is your wife... I hope this will not offend either of you."

"Not at all old chap, I'll explain the situation to her. In fact, if things go the way I would like, I think that description of her may be rather prophetic,"

Aadarsh clasped his friend's hands.

"I am pleased to hear that," he said, "I wish you well my friend."

"Thank you Aadarsh, but for the moment Mum's the word on the matter."

"My lips are indeed sealed on the matter Mr Graham."

Graham climbed on board the Jeep, and they set off across the narrow streets dodging the carts and laden donkeys. Forcing through the thronging crowds, which seemed especially excited, the Jeep sounded its horn and made way through the clamour and dust in the crowded road. They headed up and away from the urban centre, a little way into the cool hills, where Aadarsh's house could be found. Graham shouted over the rattle of engine and suspension:

"So, what was all the commotion Aadarsh? I don't remember it being so busy when I was here before."

"Ah, no. We are holding elections for a new governing council, and there is much excitement among the people. The elections have generated a great deal of interest."

"Ah yes, of course, I think I remember reading something about the forthcoming election when I was last here, there is no doubt that it has generated more interest than such a thing does back home."

"At the moment Kathmandu is still celebrating being at the centre of world news following the conquest of Everest. There is much interest in our mountain since Tenzing and Hillary made it to the summit, it has already drawn a lot of tourists, and they all pass through Kathmandu on the way to view the mountain."

"It looks as if Kathmandu will need some extra infrastructure... you know hotels and so on, to cope with the interest."

"We have many needs Mr Graham... schools, hospitals and yes, hotels I suppose, to support our new industry of tourism. I think it is likely to be splendid, very splendid indeed."

Graham could not help laughing, caught up in the naive enthusiasm that suddenly seemed to have gripped the ebullient country.

After twenty minutes of bouncing progress, Loretta with one hand holding onto her canvas sun hat and the frame of the Jeep with the other, they rounded a tight bend, the wheels scrabbling for grip on the loose surface. They turned down an extremely narrow track that was almost hidden from the road. It plunged down at an impossible angle before the land levelled out into a small clearing hemmed in on three sides by lush vegetation. There was a single building clutching the hillside with a view across to the haze of Kathmandu in the distance.

"This is my home," he said to Loretta as the Jeep pulled to a stop and the engine fell silent.

Standing in the sudden stillness, a quiet feeling of peacefulness fell over Graham and Loretta.

"It's magnificent here, don't you think?" he said.

Loretta simply nodded; she had been completely enthralled by the sights since arriving. Nothing had been what she had expected. They found themselves under the sun, strong and biting, yet the breeze was pleasantly cool. The shadows hung deep, and you could see the old trees standing out dark against the blue sky, had been shaped by the wind that ran up the gully. After the recent rains all was green and lush, but more than that, away from Kathmandu, a tranquillity seemed to emanate from the contented landscape.

Loretta gave Graham her hand as she scrabbled out of the Jeep.

"When you meet Kamala, that's Aadarsh's wife, he will introduce you as my wife... is that all right?"

"This is for the sake of propriety?"

"She might not understand that two people can be... close, without being married."

Loretta took his arm and leaned up to kiss him.

"Why would I mind...? I might even get used to the idea of being a wife... if someone were to ask me."

She kicked at the dust of the road with the toe of her boot before turning her face back and whispering into his ear:

"This isn't some bizarre way of proposing to me, is it?" before nibbling at the lobe of his ear.

Aadarsh was already running towards his house, down past the flourishing vegetable garden filled with cabbages, onions, huge green peppers and bright yellow squash.

"Kamala come quick, our guests are here!" Aadarsh called.

On the red earth in front of the house were quantities of trumpet shaped flowers with golden hearts. They had large mauve petals and a delicate scent that was carried by the gentle breeze back to where the visitors stood.

Introductions were made, and the two foreigners were conducted to their room. It was modest by western standards but more than adequate for their needs. The house opened onto a small veranda that overlooked the valley and the distant city of Kathmandu. Loretta and Graham took the opportunity to wash and change out of their travelling clothes into something fresh and clean. Tea and sweet rolls were served, and the two couples made small talk. Kamala had a modest level of English and was able to follow the conversation but took little part, inhibited by her natural shyness.

Aadarsh and Kamala had five children, three girls and two boys. They were aged between four and eleven. Two of the girls were twins, and neither Graham nor Loretta could tell them apart. All of the children seemed to have the capacity to become invisible, apart from the occasional flash of a grinning face. Their constant excited laughter, however, could be heard easily enough.

"Aadarsh, would you mind if Loretta and I took a stroll along the hills? It is so beautiful here, and once we get underway we will have little time for relaxation."

"Of course, take your time. We will expect you when we see you... that is the correct expression?"

"Yes, Aadarsh, that is exactly what we say."

They walked out into the afternoon, following a track that wove along the fields of ripening rice. A breeze stirred the heavy foliage of the trees. Turning a bend, they unexpectedly came upon a small lake. Little more than a large pond, it ran long and narrow along the curve of the hill, fed by a small spring at the southern end. The breeze was playing with the water and there were half dozen boys, slender and supple, swimming and splashing with glistening bodies.

Loretta felt a tiny hand take hold of hers, and she turned to see one of the twins at her side.

"Hello," she said, but the child did not reply.

The young girl looked up with wonder in her large dark eyes at the pretty English woman. Loretta felt into one of her jacket pockets and retrieved a bag of sweets.

"Do you like butterscotch?" she asked, offering the bag to the child.

As if by magic, her siblings appeared from the shadows, and the boys from the lake, still wet from their swim, gathered close, all showed a considerable interest in the butterscotch that Loretta doled out. Each child had a share until the bag was empty, and the children ran off chattering excitedly in words that neither Graham nor Loretta could understand.

"This place is magical darling," Loretta said.

"It seems so at the moment, but these children need schools and hospitals. The statistics are not good, there are still too many children who die before reaching adulthood."

"Hush... don't spoil it darling. What is it they say here...? Just live in the moment," she said, as if she would allow nothing to corrupt the spell that she had fallen under.

"That might be wise advice," Graham said.

He put his arm round her, allowing himself to think of her as his wife, not for the first time, but for the first time with a real expectation that it might become a reality. They walked, and lost themselves in each other and the atmosphere of the countryside.

By the time they returned to the lake again, several hours had passed. The boys had long since vanished into the hillsides, and the reflected moon was now shimmering in the still water. Loretta crouched and sank her arm into the cool clear water and splashed her face. In the distance was the sound of someone playing a flute, maybe it was one of the boys from earlier. It was a strange haunting melody that carried on the wind, ethereal and fading until it could no longer be heard. Soon they saw the oil lamps of Aadarsh's house and contentedly made their way home.

Kamala had prepared them all a meal and they ate the delicious food, vegetables and rice and spicy curries, until they could take no more. Despite their tiredness there was no thought of sleep. The conversation lasted late into the night, long after the children had gone to bed, and Kamala had also made her excuses and retired. They moved out onto the veranda lit by a single oil lamp. The evening star was out hanging over the distant lights of Kathmandu, and in the distance the frogs began to call to the risen moon.

"So, Aadarsh, what plans have you made to get us across the border into Tibet and up to the monastery?"

"If you are ready, we will start tomorrow. I have organised two small tents, extra cans of fuel and enough supplies to last four or five days. I anticipate that when we get into Tibet we will be able to resupply ourselves for the return journey."

"Have you plotted a route?"

"The journey to Tibet is one I have made before, but not to the monastery. I doubt we will have trouble finding it though. From the information you included in the telegram, I have a good idea where it lies."

"I have its position marked on my own map," Graham said. "And the border crossing?"

"I think we will try not to trouble the Chinese authorities. I envision this as a quick entry and exit, without arousing the interest of those who believe that they own Tibet. The native Tibetans are unlikely to be a problem in any case, and I do not intend using the patrolled crossing area if we can avoid it."

"What are the Chinese likely to do, if we are caught?"

"I'm not sure if they have an official policy... their response could be anything from turning a blind eye, with the lubrication of a small bribe, to having us shot for espionage."

"Oh my god!" Loretta gasped.

"Don't worry, I think that outcome is unlikely. Should we be stopped we can claim ignorance of our position. There will be no sign posts where we are going. I expect we might simply be escorted back into Nepal."

"Will claiming ignorance work?" Graham said.

"Probably not," Aadarsh said with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

"Aadarsh... may I change the subject for a moment?" Loretta said.

"Of course."

"What do you understand by the word Yeti?"

"Ah, Mr Graham warned me that you might raise such questions. I have lived most of my life in the lowlands, the Yeti or Meh-Teh, are thought to exist in the snowy mountainous regions. From my understanding, the Yeti were, centuries ago in pre-Buddhist times, worshipped as a glacier being or a god of the hunt. They were supposed to roam their domain carrying a large stone as a weapon."

"So, a tool using creature, that is very interesting. It leads to some speculation about their level of intelligence."

"They say that Yeti blood, possessed of special powers, was supposed to have been used in some of the ancients' mystical ceremonies."

"That is really fascinating... such belief systems are often revealed to have their foundation in fact... though much enhanced and confused by the mythology that grew up around their beliefs."

"I really am not an expert on the subject Miss Loretta, but I know for a fact, that belief in the Yeti has been part of the folklore of the peoples of Nepal, Bhutan and Tibet since time immemorial. Those in modern times, who claim to have seen them, described them as being notably bigger than men, rather ape-like and somewhat awe inspiring."

"Awe inspiring?"

"Yes... as in terrifying."

"Ooh... but, you have never seen one?"

"No, no, but I know of people who claim to have, others say that they have heard their disturbingly strange calls across the mountain passes."

"Do you believe the claims?"

"I have no reason to disbelieve them, even through the filter of my western education, I would like to believe that these fantastical creatures are out there somewhere."

"I think many of us would, but no one has been able to find hard evidence yet."

"I believe one of your countrymen, Eric Shipton, while in the mountains at about 20,000 feet, has taken photographs of a number of large foot prints in the snow. I understand that the photographs have been subject to serious scientific examination. Some argue they are the best evidence of Yeti's existence."

"I know of the photographs..." Loretta said. "Opinion is divided."

"And you are on the sceptical side Miss Loretta?"

"I was trained as a scientist and scepticism is the foundation stone of science."

"That does not quite answer my question."

"Well, it may be possible for such creatures to exist... it is possible, that as modern man advanced into their lands they retreated into the less hospitable regions and became mountain dwelling people. A similar thing is speculated in Europe regarding the Neanderthals, and we have no difficulty in believing that they once existed."

"Well stick with me Miss Loretta, and I will endeavour to find you a yeti with whom you may continue this interesting conversation."

"Why does no one take me seriously?" Loretta said with a laugh. "Gentlemen, I think if you will excuse me, I need my bed."

Chapter Fifteen

The following morning was spent in preparation for the journey. All the equipment they were expected to need had already been organised by Aadarsh and was neatly stowed in the Jeep. Apart from clothing, the main necessity was food, and this consisted mainly of rice and lentils which would not spoil on the journey. They took along a modest selection of canned goods to supplement their diet and an alcohol fired camping stove for their cooking. Only the essentials were taken as the spare space in the Jeep was minimal after the tents and large fuel cans had been stowed. After taking a substantial early lunch to fortify themselves for the journey, they set off into a fine early afternoon, confident of success and with light hearts.

The Jeep proved to be no more comfortable on the long drive to the Tibetan boarder than it had on the trip from the airport, but Graham and Loretta gradually became accustomed to its bouncy progress as it picked its way up from Aadarsh's home, towards the pass across the Himalayas that would lead them to the Tibetan frontier. If the Jeep had a virtue it was that its simple, yet robust construction made it virtually unstoppable by any but the most extreme terrain. In emergencies it also had a front mounted winch which would pull it free of almost any hazard. All three of the company felt a growing affection for the willing vehicle as the hours passed.

There had been rain on day two, they watched the growing storm until the rain began falling, at first in big, floppy, countable drops, and then in a sudden running hiss. The sudden downpour left the ground soft and muddy, the vegetation glistening and dripping, leaving a magical sweetness of dusty earth freshened by the brief deluge.

As they gained altitude and left the valley far below them, the temperature slowly cooled, and the lush vegetation gave way to a more rugged terrain. By the third day the temperature had dropped substantially, and the night's sleep in the simple tents was becoming a shivering experience. They rose early in search of hot drinks and treated themselves to the remainder of Loretta's stash of sweet milk chocolate.

They had already started on the reserve cans of petrol and set off in hope of making the crossing into Tibet and being able to refuel. The morning had dawned bright and fresh, cloudless apart from the voluminous white shimmer that hung about the lower slopes of the snow-capped peaks. It made the mountains look as if they were suspended from the sky on invisible threads. Aadarsh had diverted the Jeep from the narrow twisting road to take a sinuous track that can only have been intended for foot traffic; after half an hour of slow progress he pulled the Jeep to a halt. Laying his map across the Jeep's warm bonnet, he studied the contours, aligning it by aid of a small pocket compass that was his constant companion.

"I believe if we cut across the escarpment and then cross the ridge, we will be in Tibet."

All three of them looked around but saw no sign of a border crossing nor anything marking where Nepal ended, and Tibet began. Only the lines on their maps clarified the political delineation. It seemed to them to be rather arbitrary.

"Here we are in Nepal, yet across the hill we will be in Tibet, and illegal trespassers." Loretta said.

"Here's a philosophical question for you, Aadarsh... if a tree falls from a forest across a boarder and no one is there to hear it... does the tree commit an act of trespassing?"

Aadarsh laughed.

"Exactly so my friend, this will just be a brief visit, we should be gone before any one is any the wiser... from the position marked on your map, Sachri stands here."

He pointed to a position on his map.

"Once we cross into Tibet it should only take another day to reach it."

"Will we have enough fuel?"

"I am hopeful... I'm sure they will have petrol at the village."

"If not?" Loretta asked with a troubled expression.

"If not, we will be in big trouble." Aadarsh paused for a moment and then laughed. "Do not worry... we are guided by karma, all will be well."

"Karma?"

"Karma is a process of time, only the most enlightened can escape the chains of time. What we have done in the past, whether good or evil, determines what we are in the present and what we are in the present will determine our futures," Aadarsh clarified.

"So, if we are good then good things will come to us?"

"Oh Loretta, don't get him started on his philosophy, I've already posed one too many questions."

Aadarsh smiled...

"Perhaps you are right Mr Graham... I must learn more humility before I can assume to express my opinion on such matters."

Having eventually passed into Tibet via what appeared to be little more than a goat track, they saw in the distance the faint outline of a road that ran across the narrow ridge before disappearing down a slope into the misty purple distance. The sun had already passed its zenith when, consulting his map once more, Aadarsh declared that the road would almost certainly take them to Sachri.

"We might make it before dark if luck is with us," he said.

He began scanning the horizon through his field binoculars. He saw no sign of a border patrol, in fact from where they stood, at the high point above the pass, there was no sign of anyone nor of any animals, domestic or otherwise. Aadarsh drove on across open land that could support nothing, but a little hardy tussock and wind-dwarfed scrubby pines that were no taller than a man's waist. Picking their way past scattered boulders and scrabbling over loose rocks, they eventually sank into a narrow valley. A small mountain stream wound its way across their path. Its source was miles away in the high snowy mountains. On the other side of the valley, up a steep escarpment, was the road that they needed. Aadarsh drove on until he reached the stream. Up close it was wider than he had first thought but doubted it would present a problem for the unstoppable Jeep.

The stream was edged with ice, the water was crystal clear and seemed to sing, happy to be free to roam the world. They took the opportunity to fill their water cans as it bubbled and splashed over the time-polished rocks. On a hot summer afternoon it might have been a glorious spot to enjoy a picnic, if it were not in such an inaccessible place so far from civilisation.

A scattering of tiny white alpine flowers grew along the edge of the stream and a gentle breeze drew the scents of the valley up to them.

"It's lovely here," Loretta said.

A little further downstream the land fell away to a rocky chasm, and the stream cascaded over the ledge, dropping twenty feet in a misty waterfall that formed a deep pool of dark water at the base of the chasm.

"Can we cross the stream?" Graham asked.

"We must, there seems no other way... put your faith in my trusty Jeep, all will be well. I have crossed such streams many times."

"I wish I had your confidence," Graham said as he eyed the waterfall and the drop into a swirling pool of icy mountain water.

Aadarsh edged the machine into the water delicately, at no more than walking pace. It was not especially deep at the point that Aadarsh had chosen, no higher than the Jeep's axles, but the rocky stream bed was slippery and as they made progress the water became deeper and the tyres slithered and started to spin churning the water into a snarling foam.

"I think we should turn back, try crossing higher up," Loretta said from the Jeep's rear.

"You may be right," Aadarsh said, as he leaned on the brakes and put the vehicle into reverse gear.

The wet tyres could still find no grip, and as Aadarsh applied power they spun and slithered the Jeep further into the stream, turning it so that its nose pointed downstream, the water rising until it was lapping against the Jeep's sills. By now all traction was lost and the Jeep was stranded.

"Oh my god!" Loretta cried. "We'll be swept down river..."

"No, no, don't worry Miss Loretta, I think we can winch ourselves across... if the cable will reach that outcrop on the other bank."

Aadarsh jumped from the driver's seat and gasped as the icy water numbed up to the top of his thighs. He made his way to the front of the Jeep and released the cable from its locking mechanism. Dragging it behind him he waded through the water heading for the far bank. It was no more than ten yards away when suddenly he lost his footing and slipped falling onto the flat of his back.

"Aadarsh look out!" Graham called.

Already numbed by the cold water, Aadarsh had been unable to keep a grip on the cable, and he slithered down the tumbling stream of snow-melt water until he disappeared with an agonising cry over the edge.

"Stay here... the Jeep is safe for the moment," Graham instructed Loretta as he clambered over the rear of the vehicle and made it back to the bank.

"Yes, yes... oh god... Graham, be careful... what are you going to do?"

"Can you make your way to the front of the Jeep and get hold of the cable?"

"I don't know... Graham I'm scared..."

"Don't worry, you can do this... we have to save Aadarsh, I need you to be strong for me..."

"OK... OK... I'll try..."

Loretta eased her way forward until she was flat on the Jeep's bonnet. Her arms groped down past the grill until she found the cable where it was attached to the winding drum. Easing her way back she pulled the cable and by a miracle it had not become caught on the rocks.

"Good girl... now, gather the cable up and throw it across to me."

It took her a couple of attempts, but eventually the cable was in Graham's hands, and he ran down to the edge of the waterfall. Leaning over he could see Aadarsh bobbing in the pool, the water was far too deep for him to stand. He was scrabbling at the rocks at the side, but they offered no grip for his icy fingers against the pull of the dark water.

"Aadarsh... can you hear me?" he called.

He saw the man look up to him with the eyes of a soul balanced between life and death.

In water so close to freezing, a man has only a few short minutes before his core temperature sinks to an unrecoverable low. They say that hypothermia offers a peaceful death... but Graham was not going to let that happen. Standing on the top of the waterfall on the slippery rocks with water swirling about his feet, he lowered the cable down, but it would not reach the floundering man. He looked up to the sky and cursed under his breath.

"Hold on Aadarsh... I'm coming for you."

"Loretta..." he called.

She was shivering and in shock.

"Loretta, is the cable fully extended?"

She didn't seem to understand what he was saying. Her arms were clasped about her and she was rocking gently, lost to a world of panic.

"Loretta... for Christ's sake... pull yourself together."

His harsh words seemed to bring her back into the moment.

"Is the cable fully extended?"

"Yes... there's nothing left on the winding drum," she said with tears streaming down her face. "Is he still alive?"

"Yes, but I need your help... there's a rope in the back... see if you can find it."

He crossed back to the bank and ran up the incline to the Jeep. Now openly sobbing, Loretta threw the coiled rope to him.

"Good girl, stay in the Jeep and try to keep warm," he said before sprinting back to the picturesque waterfall.

He quickly tied the rope to the shackle at the end of the cable and lowered it down to Aadarsh.

"Grab hold and tie it round your waist," he called above the constant rush of the tumbling water, but Aadarsh was already beyond helping himself.

If Graham was going to save his friend, then he would have to climb down into the pool. A prospect that filled him with dread.

Knotting the end of the rope round his waist, Graham edged over the ledge of the falls, and in a half tumble, half controlled attempt at abseiling, he descended the 20 or so feet and plunged into the icy water. The shock of the cold was almost unbearable, already painful. Aadarsh had turned face down in the water and Graham thrashed across the surface in half panic to reach him. He turned Aadarsh over, and with his arms round his chest he repeatedly compressed the man's ribs until with a sudden cough and a spray of water Aadarsh found his breath again, coming in short agonising gasps.

"Loretta... Loretta." Graham screamed... "I need you to start the winch."

But, his words were carried away on the wind. Turning back, he slapped Aadarsh across his cheeks. "Come back to me Aadarsh..."

The half-drowned man lifted his eyes in recognition.

"Have no fear," he said from the confusion of his hypothermia. "All will be well..."

His face was blue and his breathing jagged and shallow. Graham knew that if he were going to survive this himself, let alone save Aadarsh, then he would have to climb the rope back to the top. He knotted the rope round Aadarsh's waist, and then with the last of his strength he hauled himself back up the face of the waterfall.

"Loretta..." he called across to the Jeep.

"Yes, yes...what is it?"

"Can you start the winch... it runs from the Jeep's battery there is a switch by the driver's seat."

"Yes, I have it, are you ready?"

"Yes, go ahead, I'll try and guide Aadarsh as he's pulled up."

The winch turned slowly; inch by inch, it wound in the cable taking up the slack and then slowly lifting Aadarsh's limp body from the icy water. Graham sat on the top ledge of the falls and guided the rope across the jutting rocks. Eventually Aadarsh was in his arms.

"OK... Loretta stop now," he called.

Loretta watched as he dragged his friend across to the bank and untied the rope.

"I need blankets... hot drinks..."

"OK, OK," Loretta called back, suddenly energised into action by the overwhelming feeling of relief.

Graham pulled Aadarsh up the rise closer to the stranded Jeep. Loretta jumped from the vehicle and waded across the knee-deep water with what she could carry. Together they stripped Aadarsh of his wet clothes, dried him as well as they could and wrapped him in blankets.

"Will you try and make some hot tea darling, I'm going to see if I can gather up some fire wood."

"How is he?" Loretta asked.

"We need to warm him up, fast... I think we were only just in time."

"We could erect one of the tents."

"That's a brilliant idea... can you make a start when you've got the water on to boil?"

Within half an hour a small fire was blazing, just upwind of the blaze, the tent had been erected and all three were drinking tin mugs of steaming tea. Aadarsh lay on his side swathed in blankets with Loretta's arms round him. He was still shivering, but he was alive.

"What now?" Loretta said.

"It will be dark soon, we should camp here until the morning... do you think you could prepare something to eat while I rescue the Jeep?"

"Yes, of course... do be careful darling."

"I'm always careful dear heart."

"It didn't look careful, the way you plunged over the falls."

"What was I supposed to do? Abandon my dear friend to a watery grave?"

He took Aadarsh's hand and felt that it was starting to warm again.

"You saved me Mr Graham... I saw the face of death this afternoon... putting your own life in danger for me is a debt that I can never repay."

He spoke through a softly trembling voice filled to bursting with emotion.

"There can be no debts among brothers my friend," Graham said before walking out into the evening, partly to attend to the Jeep but also to conceal his own sudden tearful emotion.

Once out of sight of the tent, he dropped to his knees and sobbed with relief, and the effects of shock. Then taking the winch cable, he untied the rope and coiled it for the next emergency. As the light started to fade, he carefully waded across the stream, the cable's shackle attached to his sturdy belt. Once on the far bank he located the outcrop of rock and looped the cable round securing it with the shackle. Using the cable as a support, he made it back to the Jeep and engaged the winch. It pulled at the vehicle, turning it until it faced the far bank. Graham tried the starter, the Jeep turned over slowly, coughed once and then nothing. He tried again... on the third attempt the engine burst into glorious roaring life. With the pull of the winch assisted by the driving wheels, he drove up onto firm ground and then turned the Jeep so that he could cross the stream again pulling the cable behind him.

When back across, he secured the cable and returned to the smell of cooking that was rising from their small encampment. Graham had grown rather tired of boiled rice over the past few days, but now the prospect of some hot rice shared with Loretta and Aadarsh, both safe and well, seemed a luxury beyond his wildest imaginings.

The next morning, they had more tea and ate the remains of Loretta's rice and canned beans before packing up the impromptu camp and cautiously crossing the stream for the last time. Aadarsh was much recovered but was not yet quite up to driving. Under different circumstances he might have been expected to take a couple of days of bed rest, but with Graham at the wheel they drove up the incline tacking in a zigzag fashion and gaining height until finally, driving across a shallow ditch, they reached the road.

The pink of dawn had blossomed into a fine day. Well past the boarder now, the likelihood of being spotted by a Chinese patrol now seemed minimal. The fuel gauge had been showing empty for the last half an hour and emptying the last of their cans of petrol into the Jeep, they started on the final leg of their journey. After twenty minutes they started to see a few scattered buildings in the distance. Aadarsh asked Graham to stop the Jeep, and he took out his well-used pair of binoculars and scanned the terrain once more.

"There..." he handed the binoculars to Graham. "Up on the ridge, do you see the monastery?"

"Ah, yes... so we are nearly there at last, it's been a harder journey than I was expecting."

"It has been an adventure Mr Graham, a splendid adventure."

He took Graham's hand.

"I will never, ever forget what you did for me... all I could think of as I lay helpless in that freezing water, was my dear Kamala and my beautiful children... that I would never see them again, you have given me the gift of my family again... no other gift can be so valuable."

"Thank you Aadarsh, but you are embarrassing me with your kind words."

"Ah, the famous reserve of the English gentleman..."

He clapped Graham across the shoulders.

Feeling energised by the warm sun, took the wheel again and they drove on until cresting a shallow rise, they finally saw the small village. A woman was leading a donkey along the road, her pace was slow and steady as if she had all the time in the world. Above the village rising against the sky, stood the monastery.

"The monastery looks... I don't know the words... majestic, yet at the same time humble, as if it had always stood on the mountain even before there were men..." Loretta said.

"It does seem to belong in this place," Graham said as he stretched to ease the tension from his back.

He was tired but contented to finally see his goal so close.

"Can we be sure that this village is Sachri?"

"I am confident that it is, but I will go and ask the woman... wait here. It would be wiser not to alarm the people with the sight of foreigners until we are confident of our security."

Aadarsh walked towards the woman and engaged her in conversation. After a few minutes he returned to the Jeep.

"All is well... the village is indeed Sachri. The woman told me that they almost never see the Chinese out here, so perhaps our good fortune has returned."

"That is excellent... splendid even Aadarsh."

"Yes, splendid indeed... also, the woman told me that we will be able to buy food and petrol in the village, so all that remains is to negotiate with the Lama for access to their records. I really hope you will find what you are looking for."

Arriving at the village they discovered Sachri to be a small hamlet that nestled at the base of a rocky hill. Leaving the Jeep, they wandered up towards the monastery that was approached by a narrow- cobbled path. They could have driven the Jeep up, but it seemed more respectful to walk.

"I will go and see if the monks are as welcoming to strangers as tradition demands," Aadarsh said. He walked up, past a group of villagers gathered by an old Chir pine tree and followed the winding path up some steps and across a carefully tended garden. Graham and Loretta drank some water and thought longingly of the simple and almost forgotten delight of tea and hot buttered toast.

They were chanting in the monastery as Aadarsh approached via a small neatly ordered courtyard. It was a clean and well-ordered structure built of stone, sturdy and looking almost indestructible, despite the unmistakable signs on the stone walls of pock-marked damage caused by what could only have been machine gun fire. There were now over 20 monks who relied on the repopulated village for their support. Aadarsh stood at the gate that seemed to have been a recent addition, waiting for someone to attend to him. After a while he noticed an old iron bell suspended on a wooden frame. There was a wooden mallet, and Aadarsh struck the bell and it let out a deep sonorous tone. A short time later a monk with hands in his robe, shaven headed, strolled down towards the gate. He bowed towards the stranger:

"How may I be of service to you?"

"Oh, venerable sir, my name is Aadarsh. Together with my companions we have come to seek enlightenment."

"You wish to learn the many paths of Buddhism?"

"No, our endeavours are of a more mundane nature. We are seeking information of the monastery's recent past... perhaps there are records... my companions, who have travelled many thousands of miles to be here, are..."

Aadarsh paused, he was conscious of not wanting to reveal too much about their mission.

"My companions are interested in the history of your people and culture."

"Our doors are always open to weary travellers. Bring your companions, and we will take you to our visitor's room. We would be pleased to offer you refreshment before our records are offered for your inspection."

"You are most kind venerable sir, I will return with my companions."

Aadarsh bowed to show respect and then turned away and began to retrace his steps.

There was an air of satisfaction in having accomplished the task that his English friends had requested.

He soon saw Graham and Loretta, still waiting by the Jeep. Graham waved to him, he could tell from Aadarsh's expression that all had gone well. As he watched Aadarsh striding down the hill with a bouncy gait, a young shaven headed girl, possibly a novice nun, ran after him and tugged at his shirt sleeve. Aadarsh crouched down to the child who could have been no older than his own daughters. Graham watched as she whispered something into his ear. The words could not be heard from the distance, in any case Graham would not have understood them. The girl turned and suddenly startled by something, ran off. What Graham did understand, was the change in Aadarsh's expression as he took in what the child had said.

Graham raised his eyes to the monastery, to this ancient and remote place, where so many innocent lives had been so mercilessly taken and saw the sky darken as a rain-heavy mass of dark cloud rose behind the building. Loretta shivered as a sudden gust of icy wind, risen in the distant snow laden mountains, sent a chill across her back. Graham put his arm across her shoulders and even before he heard the sound, felt he had brought Loretta to the edge of darkness.

It was a sound, only just audible above the wind, like the call of a lone wolf but much deeper with a haunting timbre. Somehow it was filled with a meaning that struggled for recognition from somewhere in Graham's ancestral memory. He turned to Loretta, her face was pale... her eyes, wide.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered in a voice almost too faint to hear.
Chapter Sixteen

Loretta and Graham stood waiting a little way from the Jeep. Graham's arms were round her protectively and she twined her fingers with Graham's. Both were determined not to acknowledge the strange cry that had echoed down to them. After a long time they saw Aadarsh strolling down the cobbled path, back towards them.

"It seems they are quite happy to speak to us," Aadarsh said as he approached his waiting companions at a relaxed gait.

"You think they'll be able to help us?" Loretta asked.

"It is deep within their culture to offer assistance to strangers... you look a little pale Loretta, is there something wrong?"

"No, I'm fine... we just thought we heard something a while ago."

"Oh..."

"Probably just the wind," Graham said exchanging a glance with Loretta.

He could feel her cold fingers trembling with disquiet.

"The wind can certainly whistle down from the high slopes and across old buildings like the monastery," Aadarsh said. "So, shall we go up and see what they have to say?"

Graham pulled an errant strand of hair back from Loretta's eyes and looped it round her ear, and the three companions climbed back up the path towards the ancient building.

"There might be rain," Aadarsh said as he looked up to the dark clouds that were rolling in.

The sound of faraway thunder filled the air like the rumbling rumour of some distant and terrible conflict.

"The end of the monsoon season can still unleash some torrential cloud bursts."

"You could be right Aadarsh, let's go... will the Jeep be safe here?"

"The Jeep has been drenched before... all will be well."

Aadarsh smiled with the easy confidence of a man for whom nothing was a problem, not even his own mortality that had recently been severely tested.

They walked up the winding path with its edges tinged green with moss. They crossed the small but immaculately kept garden until they were admitted through the monastery gate and eventually into a small reception room that was reserved for guests. With just a narrow single window, they sat alone in the half-light; the oil lamps were lit and cast long hunting shadows across the walls. The air was filled with the sweetness of incense and the constant sound of chanting filled their ears. A long deep roll of thunder, closer now and more threatening, could be heard echoing from the icy mountains. Then the rain came heavy and noisy as it fell from the heavens and brought a sudden misty chill to the room. There was a precipitous flash of lightening followed by a crash of thunder that seemed to rock the monastery on its foundations. Loretta jumped locking eyes with Graham's.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Mm..." Loretta said rather unconvincingly as she turned to see an elder monk enter the room.

"We have accommodation if you wish to stay for a few days."

Aadarsh turned his head to the speaker. The words were spoken in Tibetan, and apart from a shift in inflection were very similar to his native tongue.

"Thank you." he said. "Do you speak English? My companions do not understand our language."

"Yes, of course..."

The monk turned his eyes to the two foreigners and spoke in a heavily accented but fluent English.

"I was just telling Mr Aadarsh that we can offer you rooms if you wish to stay. But, in any case, I will bring you some tea and we can discuss your interests."

"That is very kind..." Graham said. "We thought we might possibly stay in the village, but your offer is most welcome."

Loretta flashed Graham a look, possibly one of vague admonishment. Something about her eyes suggested to Graham that she had been put ill at ease by the rather alien atmosphere of the monastery and might prefer to return to the village.

"It's only for a night," he said under his breath as the monk turned in search of the promised refreshments.

"Aadarsh..." Loretta said, as the drumming rain continued. "What was it that the child said to you as you walked back to us?"

"The girl...? Oh, it was just some childish nonsense... she told me she had foreseen our visit in a vision."

"A vision? Really?"

"The child hinted at some feeling she had. I got the impression that she associated some bad omen to our visit... I suspect that many of the residents are wary of foreigners since the disturbing events that took place here."

"Ah yes, of course," the monk said as he returned carrying a tray. "You must have spoken to Avrina. Forgive me for over hearing what you were saying, but you are right. There was a terrible tragedy here, in both the village and the monastery. It is mostly forgotten now... indeed, almost no one is left alive from those days."

"You are talking about a Nazi massacre that took place just before the war?" Graham queried.

"Ah, I see you are already familiar with the history of Sachri. How did you hear about the incident?"

"It's a long story, but there was a brief report printed in the Shanghai Times that we stumbled on when doing some research. We know a little, but I would like to confirm what happened first-hand... finding out more about the tragic massacre is why we came here... I feel that the world should be told of it."

"I doubt the world will care about a remote place such as ours. There were many tragedies in those dark days. What befell us was just a small affair in the turn of the cosmos."

"You seem quite sanguine about the incident."

"Perhaps if I had witnessed it first-hand, my opinion would be less, but this world is merely a portal to a higher plane, we should simply observe the folly of men dispassionately."

"It must be difficult not to be enraged."

"We are all driven by our emotions... we need to strive to rise above the ego. I appreciate that it is not an easy state to attain," the monk said with a broad smile.

"We noticed evidence of damage caused by gun fire on the walls as we walked here. Was that from the massacre?"

"Yes, guns and those who bear them, are not welcome in the monastery, there has only ever been one such incident... we left the damage unrepaired until time chooses to erase the patina of scars. The damage serves to remind us of the fallibility of human desires. The scars have their own beauty, don't you think?"

The monk lay down a tray of fragrant steaming tea and rice dumplings sweetened with local honey.

"Please take some refreshment. The storm will soon pass, do not be troubled by its ferocity. I will go in search of Avrina... she is the only living witness to the sad events."

"Oh, you must have misunderstood us, the one we saw was no more than a child, perhaps seven or eight, she could not have been a witness to the atrocity," Graham clarified.

The monk smiled. It may have been a smile of condescension, an acknowledgement of a naive western understanding of the reality of the cosmos.

"Your understandings differ from ours," he said. "We have no difficulty in accepting the rebirth of a spirit. We consider Avrina to have attained a particular level of enlightenment. A novice nun, Avrina is gifted with deep insight and with wisdom and knowledge beyond her brief years. Perhaps you could put aside the time constraints that are imposed by your belief systems and open your mind to a different reality."

Graham turned to Loretta and they exchanged a glance that was not easy to interpret. The monk smiled...

"I see that you are sceptical... may I suggest that you talk to Avrina, you may change your mind." He made a gentle bow and turned silently for the exit.

"What do you make of that, Aadarsh?" Graham asked when the monk was clear of the room.

"There are things beyond our understanding Mr Graham, perhaps the venerable gentleman is right. You should at least talk with the girl and see what she has to say."

"Yes, of course," Loretta said "When you look closely into things which appear strange on the surface, there is often a completely rational explanation behind them. If she knows things about the massacre, she may have simply overheard conversations and constructed her own understanding... she may even believe that she is the reincarnation of one of the villagers, with the whole incident becoming a confusion of fact and imagination in her mind. It may have become so real to her that it all seems like a memory."

"I'm impressed by your ability to psychoanalyse a child you have yet to meet," Graham said and was rewarded by a gentle poke in the ribs. "In any case, talking to her can do no harm."

"Well, if what she has to say aligns with our own understanding, then we can take it as some sort of corroboration... no matter how she was able come upon the information," Loretta said.

She licked the last traces of honey from her fingers and drew Graham closer to her. She found him intelligent, courageous, but at times quite naive... in truth, it was one of the things she liked about him, his simple straightforward view of the world.

As the afternoon drew on towards dusk the sudden storm passed, leaving the village dripping with a cool rain-washed greenness. They were taken into a sheltered courtyard burgeoning with flowering creepers that filled the air with a delicate fragrance. Seated on a low wooden bench they saw the child again. Her face shone in the last rays of the afternoon, while her bare feet splashed playfully in a shallow pool of rainwater.

"I am afraid Avrina has no English," the monk said to Aadarsh. "Perhaps you could translate the questions and answers for your companions."

Aadarsh nodded and drew Graham and Loretta with him to stand before the child. She looked up as their shadow passed over her and she smiled at them. She was fresh faced with large dark eyes that seemed to shine brightly with some inner sagacity. The visitors had to acknowledge that the child was possessed of a powerful presence, a self-containment which was unusual in one so young.

"May we ask you some questions...?" Aadarsh asked.

"Of course, please sit. I will tell you what I remember."

Aadarsh beckoned the others to join him on another low bench facing the child.

"What do you want to ask her?" he said.

"I want to know what happened on the day of the massacre. I'd like to keep the question vague so that I don't plant any suggestions about what I suspect took place," Graham said.

Aadarsh nodded and spoke quietly with the girl. She replied animatedly, addressing her words to Aadarsh, but keeping eye contact with Graham and Loretta.

"What did she say Aadarsh?"

"Her account is very shocking... she tells of the soldiers arriving. First came a large black car with... she called him the black devil, but it is hard to translate the meaning exactly."

"The black devil... was he the commanding officer?" Graham asked.

"That is my understanding... her words portrayed a man of considerable malevolence. Then a heavy truck filled with troops arrived some time later. Avrina says that the black devil brought a teacher from a distant village, a married man with a family, whom they had systematically tortured for information."

"Tortured?"

"It seems that the school teacher was forced to reveal the presence of a certain precious statue... Avrina told me that its value was for its ancient veneration, something sacred beyond monetary considerations. It was made from gold, purified by fire to represent the holiness of the Lord Buddha. Unfortunately, gold is a metal that some lust after."

Aadarsh paused for a moment, clearly touched by the emotion of the child's words.

"Go on my friend, finish what she told you," Graham urged.

"According to Avrina, it seems that the teacher was shot for no real reason, and then the monastery was ransacked. All the treasures, including the statue, were taken. It seems that the villagers were drawn up to the monastery by the commotion. They were outraged by what they saw, but their anger was quickly extinguished by the soldier's guns. No one was left alive."

"Can we trust this account Aadarsh?"

"I can't believe that she made it up, it is hard to understand how civilised men could act in that way."

"One thing being a journalist had taught me Aadarsh, is that our so-called civilisation has a very thin veneer."

The girl suddenly spoke again, her eyes filled with tears as she let out a flurry of words bursting with emotion. Then she fell silent her tear-filled eyes burning into Graham's.

"What did she say Aadarsh?"

"She asked me to tell you that she saw these events with her own eyes... she said the images are seared into her soul; she will never forget what she saw."

They fell silent, overcome by the shocking melancholy of what the child had told them, fact or fiction, a memory or an invention it hardly mattered.

"Ask her to tell us something that was not reported in the Shanghai Times... something that no one knows," Loretta said with the curiosity of a trained scientist faced with information that seemed to defy logic.

The girl suddenly stood and looked at Loretta. She spoke not in Tibetan but in perfect English:

"I know these things because I was there... because I was the school teacher who was shot. They beat me until I betrayed my people and told them where the Sang Khor Buddha could be found. Even after being shot, my spirit hovered close for many days of sadness. Despite a great struggle, I was never able to get back to my wife and child to see them just one last time. That is my greatest sadness... I believe that the power of this tragedy is why I have been reborn with the terrible memories."

Loretta reeled back, astonished by the child's fluency and the poignancy of her words. She felt cracks starting to form in the foundation of her own belief system.

"Who beat you? Was it the black devil?" she asked, now drawn fully into the child's universe.

"The men who beat me were just simpletons obeying orders... they knew no better. The man who was behind the blood lust was a high-ranking officer named Kraus. I looked into his heart and he had a black soul. I fear that after stealing the statue his fate is sealed."

"How so?" Loretta asked.

"The Sang Khor Buddha is protected by forces beyond any of our understanding. Prayers were said continuously for seven days and seven nights by seven holy monks when the statue was made half a millennium ago. Anyone who dares to abuse the statue's sacred status will ultimately face the dark side of karma."

"You mean that the statue is cursed?"

"Monks lift curses; they do not place curses... monks pray for protection. Protection of the souls of good people and the sanctity of our relics."

The child stood, bowed briefly, wiped the tears from her eyes and then skipped off into the twilight, like any normal seven-year-old girl.

The journey back to Kathmandu was uneventful. Crossing back into Nepal roused nothing, but a brief view of a distant Chinese patrol that failed to notice the dusty Jeep as it picked its way up the valley towards the Nepali boarder. Graham spent the days thinking what he could write about the massacre, how much of what he had been told could be verified. Loretta spent her time trying to reconcile what she had heard from Avrina, and the haunting howl at the monastery gate with what she knew to be scientifically reasonable... she had little success in her endeavours.

Once back in Kathmandu, Graham sent a telegram to London asking for some research on a high- ranking Nazi officer who went by the name of Kraus. The answer, when it came sent a shiver down Graham's back:

MX3UK OR20 LONDON UNITED KINGDOM

THE CUSTODIAN

RESEARCH ON KRAUS -(STOP)- SS OFFICER RANK: OBERSTURMBANNFUHRER -(STOP)- HEAD OF SCHAFER EXPEDITION TO TIBET 1938 -(STOP)- SERVED WITH DISTINCTION DURING THE WAR -(STOP)- AWARDED IRON CROSS 1944 -(STOP)- NO FURTHER RECORDS AFTER THE FALL OF BERLIN 1945-(STOP)- NOW SOUGHT BY ALLIES -(STOP)-

LYDIA PP EDITOR BAMBRIDGE 6.47 PM TUESDAY

Graham knew that the name Kraus would have been unlikely known to the present day inhabitants of Sachri... it begged the question of how Avrina could have heard the name. Despite his best efforts, he could find no rational explanation.

Graham now felt driven to go in search of the crash site. He had a sudden passion to try and recover the Sang Khor Buddha and return it to the monastery where it belonged. If his guess was right, then the plane would have been laden with stolen treasure and the statue would be there, in the foothills waiting to be recovered. But, before he could embark on that costly expedition he needed something to keep Bambridge happy. He wrote two articles; one a speculative piece on the existence of Yetis. It was a short article based, in no small measure, on the chilling call that he and Loretta had heard and supported with accounts of a purported Yeti scalp that was held at Khumjung monastery. The article was supported by evidence of the sightings of strange footprints, reported by the recent Everest expedition. Loretta had uncovered the existence of the Khumjung relic following some of her own research at the Kathmandu museum, and was growing increasingly less sceptical of the possible existence of the fabled creatures. She was beginning to see an analogue to the well accepted existence of Neanderthals in Europe and wondered if the creatures might have retreated to the snowy wastes as a refuge from the encroachment of her own species.

Graham's second article contained an account of the Sachri massacre that had taken place in 1938. He was careful not to mention the child Avrina but, risking his journalistic integrity put his sources down to a 'credible witness'. The rest of the article was a speculation that an aircraft crash site found in the Himalayan foothills may contain artefacts stolen by the Nazis, specifically those from the Sachri monastery. His article also contained, possibly naively, a proposed map reference for the general area where the Junkers might be found.

Neither article was really up to his usual journalistic standard, the report of the massacre relied rather too heavily on the testimony of a seven-year-old child, whose provenance was questionable to say the least. With the exception of considerable bullet damage still visible at the monastery, Graham's ability to get to the truth behind the reports was hampered by a distinct lack of hard evidence of exactly what had occurred almost fifteen years earlier. It was, however, a well enough constructed piece of supposition for Bambridge to accept his work, and the articles were printed on consecutive days within a week of Graham having written them.

It was a wet London morning when Miss Mosley made her way up the steps towards the Marlborough Reference Library. She had reached the age when any pretence at being still young and pretty was firmly in her past. She walked briskly with an upright stance and from a distance would still have passed for a woman in her prime. It would not have been too much of a stretch to imagine her being an attractive woman, ten maybe fifteen years ago, but some deep personal disappointment now seemed etched on the lines of her face as she took on the mantel of a middle aged, tweed dressed, librarian.

Hardly light yet, the shortening of the daylight hours had brought on a depressed mood to the woman. She shook the sticky drizzle from her umbrella and stood for a moment at the entry, turning for an instant to take in the view of the dreary grey city streets. Usually the first to arrive, she found the doors to be unexpectedly unlocked, and as she entered she was greeted by a cheery voice.

"Morning Isolde..."

The use of Miss Mosley's, rather unusual, Christian name was not something she encouraged, except from a very few close acquaintances... certainly not from a young assistant librarian like Margaret Wilson, who was a girl of hardly twenty-five. She nodded vaguely in the direction of the welcome but did not speak, instead heading to the safety of her desk which offered a defensible barrier against the unwashed public... and the assistant librarian.

Miss Mosley's early arrival offered her the opportunity to read the morning paper. It was one of the few indulgences she allowed herself these days. This morning she had absently picked up a copy of the Custodian at the station kiosk. It was a paper that she would occasionally read and appreciated its journalistic integrity but found the editorial policy to be too heavily left biased for her taste. Several pages in, she came across something that stopped her in her tracks. It was a modest piece, centred on an alleged Nazi atrocity in the wilds of Tibet; what really caught her interest was the connection that had been made to a recently discovered crashed aircraft in the Himalayan foothills.

"So... haven't you been a busy boy Mr G J Peters..." she mumbled under her breath.

She read the article through several times more before flagrantly abandoning her post, putting on her coat and hat and heading to the post office to send a rather urgent long-distance telegram.
Chapter Seventeen

Richard Smythe smoothed back his hair, then lifting his cup, he finished his morning espresso in a single gulp. It was strong and slightly bitter, the way he liked it, a perfect accompaniment to the sweet almond biscotti that he had chosen today as a little indulgence. Adjusting his shirt cuffs and taking his white Panama hat and sturdy silver handled cane from the chair beside him, he stood and turned towards the exit of the Tortoni Café. Leaving behind the old-world elegance and compelling fragrances of the café, he strode out into the bright spring sunlight that bathed the Plaza San Martin. He liked to walk in the mornings before the clamour of the shoppers spoiled the tranquillity. He still had time to catch the early post and headed for the Oficina Postal where he posted his morning's correspondence and then set out for the return stroll to his home. It was mid-September, spring already, and Richard mused for a moment on how quickly the seasons seemed to progress these days. He consoled himself with the thought that the summer would soon be upon the city. Buenos Aires – the city of fair winds – was a fine place to be in the summer. He strode past the distant bustle of Florida street, swinging his cane like a man a good decade younger than his fifty something years. He was a man of substantial wealth and still cut a dashing figure. Dressed in a white suit and wearing highly polished handmade Italian shoes, he felt the equal of anyone in the city. More accurately, he felt himself rather superior to anyone in the city. He was arrogant enough to assume that the eyes lifted to his passing figure, were raised in nothing less than the admiration he deserved.

Despite this, he lived quietly, as anonymously as a man in his position was able. His financial security offered him a life of distinguished style among the wealthy and elite. His house rested comfortably within view of the palaces built by the aristocratic families, who came to Argentina a century or more ago. Richard had constructed a comfortable lifestyle for himself in the nearly eight years that he had lived in Argentina. South America, particularly the Deep South, was a remote place. If you set sail from the south and kept to the same latitude, you would end up where you started, circumnavigating the globe without encountering any other land mass. Argentina was truly a place where a man could lose himself.

Although the air was fresh enough to really require gloves, it was something that Richard had overlooked. The sky was already that deep vibrant blue that seemed to energise him with the promise of a fine day and a warm afternoon. It was little more than a brisk fifteen-minute walk from the café across the leafy streets to his house that he had, in a moment of capriciousness, renamed Liebestod _._ The name came from his past, drawn from some music he had loved in his youth. The name had re-emerged from his subconscious and possibly as a form of displaced sentimentality, he had used the name as a link to his old life, to his homeland. But, that land and all it might have stood for, was lost to him forever now, he finally understood that. He was not a sentimental man by inclination, but after the turbulence of the war years, he had found a little haven of peace in his new country which had liberated such feelings he had once thought were buried too deep to ever surface. However much he owed to the welcoming Argentinian government, or loved the easy life the country offered to the affluent, it could never really compete with the aching patriotism he still felt for the land of his birth.

As he approached the small courtyard that offered entry to the white stone of his home, he saw his young mistress standing waiting for him. She had seen him coming from an upstairs window and now stood by the entry on tiptoe so that she could watch his approach. She had left the wide entry doors swinging open, filling the interior with the fresh morning air. One who was allowed entry to the house would find it to be rather larger than it looked from the courtyard. It had rooms of almost intimidating grandeur. The main salon which was hardly used, since Richard had assumed ownership, was hung with dripping chandeliers and ancient old world tapestries. The original owner had designed the house, for reasons of his own, with secret rooms and corridors where one might hide unseen for days before escaping through secrets steps into the gardens. The furnishings were all of the finest quality and offered enough comfort for the most fastidious. Rumours that the house might be haunted were quickly dismissed by Richard. The entire building seemed possessed of echoes, so that even with so few staff to wander the corridors, the house might often reverberate to the sound of unseen footfalls. Richard Smythe knew that the only ghosts that walked the corridors of the house in the dead of night, were the ghosts of his own past... and there were many.

The mistress, still balancing on tiptoe, was a young woman, not even half Richard's age and without question beautiful, possibly the most beautiful woman in all the city. Her appearance caught his breath as she stood there, with the semblance of Spanish nobility shining from the brightness of her golden skin. She tossed her dark curls, pulling them back from her face and then waved to Richard, her eyes shaded from the morning sun with the flat of her hand. The waving hand held a piece of paper – a small brown envelope.

"Richard, there is a telegram," she called in an accented English that was far better than Richard's abortive attempts at Spanish.

"Yes, yes, no need to inform the entire neighbourhood Maria..."

Her name – at least the name she currently went by, was Gabriela Maria De la Caballeria. Sometimes, in moments of wistfulness she called herself Gabriela Smythe, but no one was fooled. Her history was too much the subject of local gossip for anything about her that extended much beyond her origins in the gutter, to be truly believed. Richard preferred to simply call her Maria, he had found her on the streets, still a teenager, and had purchased her favours one evening six or seven years ago. Taking something of a shine to her, he eventually installed her into his household as, if not quite a wife, then an intimate companion... another expensive possession. What Richard got from the relationship was obvious enough; all that Maria really wanted from life was a roof over her head, a full stomach and a little shared love. She was well furnished with the first two of her desires but, despite her efforts, there was little love to be found in Richard's lust of her young body. Gabriela Maria was the daughter of a dockside whore and a transient Irish sailor, whose name she never knew. As a child she imagined her father to be an Irish prince, a nobleman who one day would come and find her and restore her to her rightful position. In some perverse way, Richard Smythe had filled that role for her.

That morning she had dressed for him in the finery that his wealth had bought her. Trying to be the aristocratic woman that Richard might eventually fall in love with, she sat before her mirror and brushed her hair to a sheen. She was wearing a silk blouse, milky white, and a long dark skirt that emphasised the elegant swell of her hips. Richard had chosen it on one of their shopping expeditions to the elegant stores of Florida Street. She pushed the thick dark hair back a little from her ears and turned her head sideways to insert two pearl earrings, a match for the expensive pearl necklace that he seemed to like to see her in. But, as they breakfasted together, Richard hardly acknowledged her presence as he completed his correspondence and then headed out on his morning constitution and then to the Plaza to catch the early post. Regarding the waved telegram, Richard held out his hand.

"Who is it from?" he asked with a snap of impatience.

Gabriela Maria shrugged.

"It's from London, I think," she said submissively lowering her eyes.

He took the envelope from her fingers, allowing his hand to stroke slowly down the golden skin of her naked arm. She smiled at him with the practised look of desire she had learned at the knee of her long dead mother. Richard walked into the spacious entry hall and dropped his hat and cane on the polished mahogany stand. The telegram had intrigued him, and he was curious, yet somehow hesitant to discover its contents. Few knew of his whereabouts and those who did... knew altogether too much.

Crossing the tiled flooring to the conservatory, he paused to pick up the long spouted watering can and distracted himself for a few idle moments in watering the potted rubber plant and pulling some wilted dying leaves from African violets. The conservatory had a view across to San Martin Square with its spacious area covered by magnolias and tall shading sequoias. The only exterior door from the conservatory opened onto the gardens that ran around from the rear of the house. The gardens at the rear of the property had been allowed to sit somewhere between the neatly manicured and the capriciously neglected. Richard had almost no interest in the gardens and left his gardener to his own devices. The result was deep lush lawns and hedges bursting with patches of flowers that although planted with care, managed to look wild and spontaneous when you came upon them unexpectedly, as they lay beneath the branches of overhanging trees or burst from the shadows when caught by a flash of sunlight.

Richard eased himself into his favourite cushioned chair and crossed his legs before slicing open the telegram with the slender knife he used for pealing fruit. He read the stilted telegram speak, carefully unpicking the meaning until he was certain that he had not misunderstood a single word. The news that it contained, once absorbed, ignited a fire that he had long thought extinguished.

"What is it Richard?... Not bad news?"

He looked up at Gabriela Maria, who had quietly followed him into the conservatory. She looked so lovely with the pearls caressing her slender neck and her dark, almost childlike eyes. He felt a sudden overwhelming desire to take her there on the conservatory floor.

"Not bad news at all," he said, holding his hand out to her.

She came to him softly and obediently, the way he had taught her, and he picked her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her slender body up the marble staircase to the second floor. He passed the housemaid on the stair and she looked away, flushed with embarrassment, pretending to dust the picture frames that she had cleaned only minutes before. Richard burst through the double doors of the master bedroom and lay Gabriela Maria on the bed. She looked up at him with an expression that might have been one of innocence; she offered no resistance as he slowly undressed her, kissing her nipples until she moaned with pleasure. And then, driven by a desire that had its genesis in a land far away from Argentina, he made explosive love to her for the first time in over a month.

Gabriela Maria De la Caballeria needed these moments of passion as much as Richard did, and there was nothing contrived in the way her body responded to him. Still breathless, still naked with the golden sunlight bathing her exquisite body, she kissed the lobe of his ear and then stroked her slender index finger across his forehead and down his cheek following the curve of the old pale scar that lay under his left eye. It was a scar that mesmerised her, it gave him a look of seductive mystery, a man driven by passion.

"Enough," Richard said brushing her hand away.

He leaned across to the bedside table and lit a slender cigar. There was a smile on his lips that had nothing whatsoever to do with Gabriela Maria. She slipped from the bed and pulled on a sheer silk dressing gown; the mood had changed. The gown was almost transparent and did little to provide her with any modesty as she stood before the open balcony doors. She took a cigarette from the silver box on the side and after lighting it, walked out to the balcony that looked down on the courtyard and the ornamental pond with its silver and orange carp, darting in the dark water under the water-lilies. Gabriela drew from the cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply. There was a nervousness, a little tremor of anxiety, as she began to sense that things were about to change. Richard had already changed, become suddenly energised since reading the telegram. She had never known him to be quite so passionate before, but she could sense that the passion was not directed towards her. Gabriela fingered the pearl necklace that was still round her neck. She was unsure whether the pearls had been a generous gift or a symbol of ownership. Perhaps there should be a tag attached... _if lost kindly return to Richard Smythe, Liebestod, Avenida del San Martin..._ the girl that is... not the necklace.

Leaning over the balcony, she let the half-smoked cigarette fall down to be extinguished among the dampness of the begonias and then turned back to him, her dressing gown billowing as she walked. Richard was sitting up in bed now, smoking and lost in thought. She moved across to the ornately carved wine table that stood in the corner of the room... sitting on a dark ruby coloured velvet cushion was a single object... an object of reverence. It seemed to Gabriela, that Richard venerated the statue as if it were the centre piece of a shrine. As the curtains lifted in the light air, a shaft of sunlight lit up the statue making it seem to dance with fire. It was a statue of some oriental deity, she was unsure which graven image it was, but was drawn by its beauty. As if it was the first time she had really noticed it, she stroked a crimson painted nail across the jovial fellow's fat belly...

"Don't touch that," Richard barked. "You have no comprehension of the dark power contained within that forged metal".

Gabriela Maria started, her finger pulling back as if she had been stung by a scorpion.

"I'm sorry Richard..." she said.

Richard's eyes were fixed on the Buddha, as if it had a power over him. In his mind that was exactly the case. He seemed filled with awe and something more... something like a terrible inescapable fear. Gabriela joined him on the bed and in a gesture of supplication tried to embrace him again...

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his ear, "don't be cross."

But, the moment of passion had passed, turned to bitter ashes.

"I intend inviting someone to stay. Someone from London," he said. "We were student's together years ago in Oxford..."

"This is to do with that telegram," Gabriela stated.

Richard did not reply, but she could tell that her supposition was correct.

"Is this person a woman?... An English woman?" she said as some sort of naive accusation, her words sounding more incautious and harsher than she had intended.

Richard slapped Gabriela across her face, a sudden and unexpected reaction that was delivered with enough force to bring a flush of tears to her soft dark eyes. Despite her position, Gabriela still clung desperately to a little pride; she would not let him see her cry like an admonished child, even if he had made her feel like one.

"You seem to have forgotten your position Maria. Your time here as my mistress... my eager little whore, may be drawing to a close."

"No, don't say that... don't call me that."

She had known that the golden days of living in this splendour could not last forever, but she had thought she would have time to make provision for her future. That future always seemed far away, in some distant time perhaps, when she had lost her looks. Richard provided every material comfort she could desire, but she had no money of her own, just the pearls... if they were really hers. She felt completely vulnerable as the prospect of having to return to her former life suddenly seemed more like a tragic certainty, than an uncomfortable vague possibility that had hung over her since Richard had taken her into his house.

"You can't throw me out. I thought that I had come to mean more to you than that... was that love making nothing more than lust for you?"

"As much as it was for you child... don't presume to tell me how I should feel in my own home."

He stubbed out the cigar with irritation and then turned his face to Gabriela. She half expected a softening, maybe an expression of regret for having hit her, but instead, his words just drove another spike into her heart.

"It is true that I care for you Maria... as I care for a well-cut suit or a silk tie. One can lose one's taste for such things so very easily, don't you think child?"

She jumped from the bed and gathered up the clothes that Richard had so passionately discarded to the floor only moments ago. Then she ran to the door to find sanctuary in her own room. But, caught up in the stinging emotion of the moment she turned, and once spoken her incautious words could never be unsaid.

"We have been together for five years, yet you still think I am just a stupid child... a whore for your pleasure. Well, I am not as stupid as you think, Señor. I see things... I hear things, Mr Richard Smythe. My lonely hours have been filled with discovering who you are. Yes, I may have read some of your letters, discovered things you wished to be kept secret."

"What? You ungrateful snooping whore! How dare you go through my private papers?"

"Any wife or even me... a whore from the streets, would have done the same."

She took a deep breath, knowing that she had already said far too much. Now that she had started, the constant demands and disappointments that had built up over the years cascaded in an out-flowing of resentment. She was unable to contain her anger anymore, and as a last parting shot, with trembling fingers, she spoke the words that finally sealed her fate:

"You know Richard, last week in the newspapers I read that there are agents of Mossad in our country. They are seeking people with a certain history... people like you, Richard. They would be interested to hear of your presence in Peron's Argentina... don't you think... Herr Siegfried Kraus?"
Chapter Eighteen

Hans Schiffer had been an almost constant companion of Kraus during the latter part of the war. He was his Batman or Ordonnanz and worked as Kraus's personal servant and driver. Kraus learned to trust and rely on Schiffer's loyalty. Schiffer had the reputation of being a hard man, dangerous if you got on the wrong side of him and this rather appealed to Kraus. When the end of the Third Reich's aspirations became inevitable, it was no surprise that Siegfried Kraus under the name of Richard Smythe, invited Schiffer to accompany him on his escape to Argentina. Schiffer spoke a competent, if not quite fluent English and as a result also posed as an Englishman. In a Spanish speaking country, he was able to get away with this, though for a native English speaker his accent was readily detectable. Schiffer took the name Harry Fielding and worked for Kraus in a similar role to the one he had been assigned in the army. While not quite taking the title of butler, he was appointed as head of the household staff, taking some modest pleasure in wielding his authority over the three or four housemaids, the chef and her assistant, and the gardener and his boy.

There was a time, Kraus recalled, when Schiffer would break a man's legs for fifty Marks and kill him for a hundred. His current duties were modest, but should Mr Smythe ever be in need of such a thing, he was well able to fill the role of close protection officer for his master. When out and about Harry was usually armed with a small calibre pistol which was habitually kept secreted in a shoulder holster. The weapon had not yet been used in anger and if the newly named Harry Fielding had an issue with his new life, then it was centred on boredom. He eased this to some extent by occasional visits to the _Flamenco Rosa_ , an infamous hotel of easy virtue.

Following Gabriela's unfortunate outburst, Harry was made responsible for ensuring that she did not leave the house. It was an interim measure until Richard could decide what he was going to do with the rather impulsive young woman. He was fond of her in his own way, but the threat she had made could not be ignored indefinitely. Gabriela understood all too readily that she had crossed the line and expected to be thrown back on the streets, or worse, at any minute. In the meantime, she kept her head down and spent most of the time sulking tearfully in her room. Since she chose, of her own volition, to no longer dine with Richard, it was Harry who brought up her meals. Harry had always been attracted to her, though the price that _Flamenco Rosa_ asked for her services had never been within his means. After Richard had installed her as his mistress, she was clearly no longer available – at any cost. Despite his frustration, there was no doubt that Harry treated her with more dignity than Richard had ever done, and Gabriela saw him as the closest thing she had to a friend... but, when you have no friends, the smile of the devil himself may seem welcoming.

"I've brought you a little chicken and salad," Harry said as he entered her room without knocking. The only key to her door was in Richard's possession, and although she had not yet been formally confined to her room, it remained a possibility. Harry pulled back the curtains and opened the window to let in a little fresh air. He saw that she had not touched her breakfast as he lay down the tray.

"You must eat something Gabriela... making yourself ill will not help anyone."

"I have nothing to live for Harry..."

She turned her face up to him, the dried streaks of her tears were still on her cheek.

"I never meant what I said. You know I would never expose Richard, don't you?"

Harry crouched down beside her, almost involuntarily he rested his hand on her knee. For Gabriela it was the warm touch of human compassion. For Harry, it was the temptation of forbidden fruit, like scenting a ripe peach before plunging your teeth into its juicy flesh. But, beyond the animal desire for her body, he felt something more. He knew little of love, but he knew that he felt compelled to take care of her, to keep her safe from the SS-Obersturmbannführer.

"You have been a silly girl," he said with a softness of voice that almost drew tears from Gabriela.

"What is Richard going to do with me?"

"He never tells me what his plans are."

"You just follow orders... I know the things you have done for him in the past... shooting those men who got in your way when you and Richard were escaping Berlin."

Harry mused at how little she had really uncovered of Richard's past. She had found just a few scraps of paper from the scribblings of an old diary, many of the things that the SS-Obersturmbannführer had ordered him to do were simply too terrible to commit to paper... no one would ever uncover those truths.

"That was in the heat of war," Harry said. "Our survival was on the line... you can't be expected to understand what was necessary back then."

"But you still carry a gun Harry."

Harry did not answer.

"Promise me Harry, that you won't...," her eyes flushed with fresh tears, "promise that you won't use the gun on me."

Harry picked up the tray of uneaten breakfast and turned to the door.

"Eat your lunch," he said.

Within a few days, telegraphic confirmation was received that Richard's invitation had been accepted. Miss Mosley was finally going to see her erstwhile lover again and a tremor of excitement ran through her body. She had not been in personal contact with Siegfried Kraus since well before the war, though they had regularly corresponded over the years. Isolde Mosley was infatuated with her Siegfried, she had been since they had met at Oxford. Their separation following his return to Germany had been a trial for her, and try as she might she could form no attachment to any other man, and had lived a withering solitary life for far too many years. Once the invitation to join him had been received, she immediately resigned her post at the Marlborough Reference Library and bid a not so fond farewell to her former life. There was no regret whatsoever as she boarded the aircraft for the first stage of her flight to South America. It was as if she could feel the swelling buds of her new life bursting into the blossom. The life she had always wanted... a life with the only man she had ever shared any intimacy. Finally, she would be embraced again by a man who shared her own interests and political convictions. A real man who stood for meritocracy and rejected, as she did, any concept of weak minded social responsibility. The future belonged to the strong and those who snivelled for state handouts should be cast aside and trampled underfoot.

Richard was also starting to be warmed by the prospect of Isolde's imminent return into his life. His interest was somewhat more pragmatic, focussing mostly on what she could tell him about his lost gold, but there were still a few smouldering embers for the young woman who had given herself so freely to his, mildly aberrant, desires all those years ago. On the day of Isolde's arrival in Buenos Aires he instructed Fielding to wash and polish his car. He would bring her home in style. His car, a Mercedes Benz 300 S coupé, was a handsome and powerful three litre car. A two plus two coupé, in lustrous white paintwork with a red leather interior. Richard had little need or opportunity to drive the car and it spent most of its time languishing under dust sheets in the garage. On the fine spring afternoon as he cruised along the newly constructed highway at close to eighty miles an hour, he felt like a prince on a white charger with a damsel to rescue.

Harry was not required to chauffeur Richard to the airport and he found his thoughts turning to the young woman who was now kept under house arrest. His recent kindness to her had elicited a response which he had interpreted, as any man might, as... an invitation. Now that Richard had cast her aside, he had convinced himself that his previous, _hands off_ , inhibitions might now be rather redundant. He tapped lightly against her door and entered. Gabriela was standing by the window, she turned her face to him with a soft smile that contained more sadness than joy. She guessed why he had come and the proposition was not totally unwelcome.

"Richard is out," she said. "I saw him drive away..."

She held out her hand to Harry. It was all she really understood of men: their need for sex. She knew Harry had wanted her for so long. In the past she might have teased him, provoking him... but never with any real malice. Gabriela was weak from hunger, but food was not what she craved. A little human kindness, a little intimacy to see her through the day, she simply needed to be cared for... just for a moment.

Harry slowly unbuttoned her blouse and slipped his fingers under the shoulder strap of her bra, sliding the cup free he saw the perfect swell of her young breast. She pulled him towards her, drawing their lips together as the gasp of their breath increased in pace and synchronised in swelling passion. She frantically ripped at the buttons of his shirt and they fell together onto her bed. She found herself gasping with unexpected emotion as they smoothly thrust in unison. Altogether too soon Gabriela felt the shudder of his moment of petit mort, felt his warmth fill her. She could not bear to let him withdraw like some sleazy customer from her past and wrapping her legs round him, she clung on to the precious moment of human contact for as long as she could.

Harry had turned out to be a gentle lover, this was not what she had expected. When she finally released him with tears in her eyes, he kissed her softly, lifting her into his arms as if she were as delicate as a new born child. He brushed the dark hair from her face.

"You know I have always loved you Gabriela..."

"I suppose I guessed something... I'm sorry if I was not always kind to you."

"Don't worry about that, it's now that matters. I promise, on my life, that I will protect you."

"Will you Harry? Is that even possible?"

"Richard is not the man he used to be... you must have noticed his growing flashes of mania. The time when he could treat me as his puppet is drawing rapidly to a close."

Gabriela, pale and trembling, wiped the tears from her eyes and took Harry's strong hand. It was the hand of a working man, his life was laid there to be read in the folds of the skin, the strength of the sinew and knots of muscle. She kissed the callouses on his fingers and could feel the power of his hands.

"Harry, you are adorable and what we just shared was magical for me, but despite everything, despite knowing all I do about him, it is still Richard who owns my soul."

"How can that be true?" he said softly, "I have watched the way he has treated you over the years... you deserve better Gabriela. My sweet Spanish lady... give me the chance and I will make you change your mind."

When he finally left her, she lay a long while looking up at the ornate curls of plaster on the ceiling. She could still smell him on her skin and it was a good thing. Harry was a good thing. She sat up and saw her discarded clothes still scattered around the room. Richard had bought all these silks and satins for her, she felt that must mean something. Richard must still care for her, just a little. As her eyes fell onto her uneaten lunch, there was still no hunger for food, just a sense of something she could not put a name to; an aching nostalgia for something she had never had.

Despite the years they had been apart, there was instant recognition as they met in the arrivals area of Ministro Pistarini International Airport. Anyone who knew the Miss Mosley from her librarian days would hardly have recognised the confident mature woman who lifted herself up to Richard's lips. After the kiss she stood back to see how the years had changed him.

"Siegfried, you look more wickedly handsome than ever... so distinguished," she said, brushing some imagined dust from his lapel.

"It's Richard now, please be careful. One never knows who might be listening."

"Of course, I'm sorry."

She understood the reason, but the name Richard did not have quite the erotic frisson for her that his real name did.

"It's so good to see you after all these years Isolde," Richard said.

It was a true statement, but for him the woman who stood before him was no longer the one he had known in the fire of their youth, or even at their last brief meeting over fifteen years earlier. Now the years sat more heavily on her. He thought with sad reflection that she was no Gabriela Maria De la Caballeria. Despite this, the touch of her lips had awakened memories that would never fade and although Isolde could not be described as beautiful, he was surprised to discover that she was still able to rouse a considerable passion in him.

"Let me take you home Isolde, I think you will be impressed."

He took her arm and they walked out into the sunshine, each of them bristling with slightly divergent expectations.

Isolde's first sight of the house was indeed impressive, but the interior elegance almost overwhelmed her. It was beyond her wildest expectation. She demanded a tour of the house and followed Richard like an overexcited schoolgirl as he showed her round his little palace. She was introduced to Harry and then to the assembled staff who showed her the deferential respect for a superior that she had craved for so long.

"Am I to share your room Richard?" she asked, taking his arm in both her arms as they strolled in the garden.

Avoiding the question Richard steered her towards the greenhouses and through the potting shed filled with vegetable seedlings, its shelves stacked with containers of fertilisers and sprays and poisons for every imaginable garden pest.

"You grow your own vegetables?" Isolde asked.

"It's an interest of Dejuan my head gardener, I leave such things to him."

Isolde nodded, and they moved back out into the open and followed the winding path back up towards the house.

"So, how do you find my little corner of Argentina?"

"I find it beyond my expectations Richard, and my expectations were already high."

"I am pleased that it meets with your approval... I can see you and I accomplishing so much together."

"I see that too, but Richard you rather left my question dangling."

"Sharing my room?" he said.

"Yes..."

Richard had pondered the situation for some time and had concluded that separate rooms might be preferable.

"I don't want to disappoint you, but I have grown a little set in my ways, my personal space, a little seclusion had become precious to me. Would you be offended if I suggested separate rooms?"

"It might be better Richard... but, I have lived as a rather desiccated spinster for too long, I hope we might reawaken the intimacy that we shared all those years ago."

"Of course, my little English sympathiser... you understand that, for my part, I have not exactly lived a celibate life all these years."

"Of course not... I would not expect it of such a virile man," she held him with her eyes. "Tell me about your mistress... is she still here?"

"I chose not to introduce you... I felt it was possibly inappropriate. The fact is, I am undecided on what to do with her. There is still some residual fondness for the child, but she can't be allowed to tell the world what she has stumbled over. I was altogether too trusting of her."

"Where is she now?" Isolde asked.

Gabriela's presence in Richard's life was felt as a splinter in her thumb. A tolerable annoyance, but something that ultimately would need tweezing away. Richard could see the conflict of keeping a mistress in his house while at the same time inviting another woman to share his life.

"Maria... I call her that, but I think she prefers Gabriela... is mostly confined to her room. I do not allow her to leave the house, not even to stroll in the garden. Nor is she allowed any communication beyond these walls, no letters, no telephone calls."

"A virtual prisoner... your man Fielding... he is keeping her... safe?"

"Indeed so."

"I should like to meet her, maybe I could help you resolve your problem with Gabriela."

"Really, what do you have in mind?"

"Maybe she needs the stern hand of a mother figure to clarify her position... now Seig... Richard, if you could show me to my room."

Having dressed for dinner, Isolde sought out Gabriela's room which, like her own was on the third floor. Without knocking she threw open the door and found the young woman sitting by the window. Her lunch, served on an elegant silver tray, had been untouched once again, the bed still ruffled and unmade despite the hour. Undeniably beautiful, the young woman was looking pale and tearful. She turned with a slight gasp as Isolde burst in.

"I am Miss Mosley...," Isolde said with a stern tone in her voice. "Please have the respect to stand when I enter the room... the other staff have already been instructed in the matter."

Gabriela lifted herself from her chair and Isolde saw a weak and trembling young woman.

"I imagine that Richard will have told you that I was expected," Isolde said, as her eyes scanned across the room.

In décor, it was similar to her own, _much too good for the ungrateful whore_ she thought.

"Yes... he did mention that you were coming," Gabriela replied in little more than a hoarse whisper. She moved a little closer and held out her hand, but Isolde ignored the offered handshake. She was determined to dislike the girl, but as Gabriela stood trembling in the light from the window, her innocent welcome rejected; Isolde felt a brief flash of pity for the child. The pity did not last; as the evening sun played on Gabriela's hair, with the uncombed curling strands falling across her slender neck, Isolde was stunned by the young woman's natural beauty. She had not expected the young woman to be quite so exquisite and for a moment she stood looking at Gabriela quite unable to speak. It was another transitory moment and when Isolde made the fatal mistake of comparing her own attractiveness to the vision that stood before her, the admiration was soon turned to an envious hatred.

"You have angered Richard, by the threats you made over these trivialities you have discovered about his past. Richard is one of the most magnificent men who has ever lived... do you have any comprehension of how truly great he is?"

Gabriela was not without intelligence, she had formed a fairly accurate picture of just how great Richard Smythe was. She chose not to answer the leading question directly:

"I regret my foolish words Miss Mosley."

"Have you told anyone of your suspicions, or was it just an idle threat?"

"No..." Gabriela allowed a deep sigh to fall from her lips. "I could never tell anyone. I was angry, and the words just came from nowhere..."

"You are a foolish child Gabriela... frankly, I cannot comprehend what Richard sees in someone like you." Isolde sniffed as if it were a punctuation mark and turned her face from the girl. "If I were Richard, I would give you a sound thrashing and throw you back on the streets where you clearly belong."

"Please Miss... if I could take those words back...what is Richard going to do with me?"

"That is yet to be decided." Isolde turned for the door. "I will instruct Fielding that there is to be no more food brought to you until you eat your lunch... it can go rotten for all I care. Richard and I have no interest in pandering to your childish behaviour."

As she left with a slam of the door, there was a thin smile of satisfaction on her lips. Isolde walked down the staircase in time for the dinner gong and met Richard in the hallway. She took his arm possessively as if, now that she had put the opposition in its place, she could finally claim sole ownership of Richard Smythe's affection.

"I have just spoken with the girl," she said, "I can see no difficulty in resolving your problem with her... why don't you leave the situation with me?"

"I will need to know that she will never disclose what she has discovered to anyone."

"I fully understand that Richard. In any case, we have more important matters to discuss. The missing Junkers JU 52 for example. I think we must act swiftly if we are not going to be beaten to the prize."

"Yes, yes... the gold, it has been hidden in the snow for so long, just waiting for me to claim it. It's mine Isolde, mine, I can almost feel it."

Richard's eyes flashed as he laughed, and Isolde was astonished to see something that, in a lesser man, could almost have been a glimpse of madness reflected there. Regaining his composure Richard continued in a more moderate tone:

"Am I to understand that you intend accompanying me to Nepal?"

"That is my wish, unless you forbid me, in which case I will naturally obey your wishes... as I always used to." She spoke with something resembling a coy smile on her lips. "I would love to be at your side when you recover what is undoubtedly your rightful property from the remains of the aircraft."

Richard raised an eyebrow, he had taken the gold by force of arms, and for some, the rightful ownership might be considered questionable. Now that Isolde had supported his claim to ownership, he suddenly saw things more clearly. The gold represented the legitimate spoils of war, of course they were his by right. He smiled at Isolde and suddenly found that the old feelings he had for her were still present. The shared taste in music and politics, the stimulating conversations, the sexual tension were all still there, still a rich and rewarding resource to be mined.

"You are a magnificent woman Isolde," he said.

Then taking her wrist in a tight clasp.

"You remember those games we used to play?"

Isolde's pulse started to race... his powerful grip pressed deliciously towards the edge of pain. Isolde looked into Richards eyes.

"Tighter," she whispered.

Her passion for his sexual dominance had never waned in the years that they had spent apart... if anything, the years of abstinence had increased her passion to an almost unbearable tension. Now that she was in his presence again, she longed for a release... longed to feel the slap of his riding crop across her tender buttocks and the forceful way he used to take her tied to his bed.

"Take me," she whispered, "take me now... I am your woman again... forget that silly child."

"Be patient Isolde... I have what you need, and a lifetime to give it. First, we must dine. I seem to remember that you used to have a fondness for lobster."

Flushed and breathing rapidly, Isolde took her seat opposite Richard.

"Will you pour me a little water?" she said, fanning her cheeks with the crisp white napkin.

"Of course..."

Richard picked up the carafe of water, the ice tinkling as he poured a measure into Isolde's crystal glass.

"Clarify for me how you got to know about the Junkers," he said as he took up his soup spoon.

"Well, it was pure chance... a local reporter stumbled on the information while covering some mountaineering trivia in the Himalayas..."

"Ah, yes, the Everest expedition."

"Something of the sort... in any case, he came to me for help with his research."

"And once you had put two and two together, you tried to persuade him to drop his interest?"

"That line of action was a mistake, I see that now. I should have known that such an approach would only serve to rouse his interest further. The men I engaged were loyal to the cause but not overly bright. Their approach was rather crude."

"A crude approach can have its place in one's repertoire," Richard said with a smile that hung somewhere between mischievous and outright sinister.

"Indeed, it can..." Isolde said without lifting her eyes from her soup plate.

"Now who's taking a crude approach? Patience Isolde... we will get to that pleasure in the fullness of time. Let me divert you for just a moment. How urgent do you think it is that we get to Nepal?"

"Well, in the days since I telegraphed you, I have enhanced my own research into the missing Junkers... as you might imagine, once I realised the significance of what Peters was looking into, I was able to reserve some of what I discovered for my own interest. He may have thought otherwise, but not everything I discovered was passed on to the journalist."

"So, you feel that we are better prepared to find the Junkers than he?"

"In some respects... I certainly feel that I have a better idea of the Junker's true location than Mr Peters. As you know he is already in Nepal, and there may be others hot on the trail since his newspaper article was published. I really don't think we have much time to waste."

"In that case, I'll get Fielding to book three seats on the earliest flight."

"Three?"

"Fielding has been invaluable over the years; he is the perfect support for this sort of work. The man is tough, able to follow orders without question. More importantly, he shows a level of focus that is quite unmoved by anything that might be considered sentimentality."

"Much like you Siegfried..." Isolde said. "Now, do you really need to finish your dinner... my own hunger lays elsewhere?"

Richard laughed.

"Very well you rapacious vixen, go up to my room. I'll join you in a moment."

Isolde Mosley, a one-time frumpy London librarian, rose from the table.

"Don't keep me waiting," she said.

"I'll be along presently... prepare yourself... you know how I like to find you."

One who was not familiar with Miss Mosley's normal, rather stoic, demeanour might have imagined hearing a little squeal of delight emanating from her lips as she hurriedly crossed the room and flung open the double doors.

Chapter Nineteen

Isolde woke in her own bed, but the fire of the night's lovemaking was still burning inside her as she opened her eyes and gazed out upon a clear blue sky. At breakfast Richard told her that their flights had been booked and they were due to depart on the start of their journey to Nepal in just two days' time. He expressed some concern about not wanting to leave before resolving his problem with Gabriela.

"You suggested earlier that you have formulated a plan," he asked.

"I did Richard, though I was expecting a little more time... but don't worry, I think I can wrap it all up today... does Gabriela enjoy picnics at all?"

"It is not something that has ever come up. Why do you ask?"

"A picnic might offer me an opportunity to convince her of the... folly of her outburst. I'll see if I can persuade her to join me," Isolde said.

"From what Fielding tells me she's become rather unresponsive."

"You have made no attempt to see her yourself?"

"God no, I have more rewarding things to think about."

"I think I might be able to persuade her, from my earlier visit she seems quite a fragile little thing, easily manipulated...what are her favourite foods?"

"I have no idea, she eats what I eat, though I seem to remember her drooling over some spicy hot foods, chilli and so on, not something my northern European palate can really appreciate."

"Chilli, that might be just the ticket. I'll see what chef can prepare for our young lady."

"This all sounds rather fascinating Isolde, and I really can't imagine what you have in mind, but I'll give you a day to convince the girl to see reason. Then I may have to ask Fielding to utilise his own set of persuasive skills..."

"I wouldn't want to trouble Fielding, I'm sure he has plenty to do preparing for our trip, in any case this is something that I would like to do for you. There might be something you could do... let us assume, for the sake of argument, that Gabriela will not be present in the household for much longer, this may spark some curiosity among the staff. Perhaps you could let it be known that she had found some alternative accommodation."

"If you think it necessary Isolde. I suppose I could circulate the rumour that I have installed her in my Monte Hermoso beach home."

"You have a beach home, as well as this palace?"

"Just a modest little retreat on the Atlantic coast, no more than five or six bedrooms, nestled right on the beach front... I keep a few horses stabled there. You know, galloping across the beach with the sea-wind in my face and the sun sinking into the ocean is an exquisite pleasure. One that I have not enjoyed for a long time. I remember you being a fine horse woman Isolde... I will take you there when our little Himalayan adventure is concluded."

"It sounds divine... I feel as if this new life of mine is all a dream."

Richard smiled at her, seeing... for possibly the first time, what an excellent companion Isolde would be.

"How could I have abandoned you for so long...? All those wasted years."

"Forget the past Richard, we have a future to look forward to."

Richard took her hand and kissed the inside of her palm.

"I didn't hurt you too much last night?" he asked.

"No... not too much at all."

She returned his smile as her sexual reawakening bubbled just beneath the surface, giving her more than enough incentive to do what had to be done with Gabriela, no matter how distasteful. She stood from the breakfast table and dabbed her lips with the napkin.

"Now Richard, if you will excuse me, I have things to organise."

He watched her walk away, and without quite understanding why, found her disappearing silhouette to rouse his passion more powerfully than even Gabriela with her elegant beauty had been able to.

Isolde tapped lightly against the dark timber of Gabriela's door before pushing it open against the creak of its hinges. She was carrying a tray of croissants, freshly squeezed orange juice and strong aromatic coffee. Gabriela was still in bed though she had slept little. She turned with a start towards the suddenly opening door and drew the bed clothes up to her neck protectively.

Isolde smiled at the young woman as she set the tray down on a low table.

"Good morning Gabriela," she said.

Gabriela sat up and blinked her eyes.

"I think we got off to a bad start yesterday my dear."

She sat on the side of the bed and took Gabriela's hand.

"Will you forgive my rudeness?"

Gabriela looked at Isolde in some astonishment but did not reply.

"You see, I think I misunderstood things... misunderstood just how much Richard cares for you." She handed the glass of orange to Gabriela and stroked her hair.

"Won't you have some breakfast with me and we can put yesterday's misunderstanding behind us."

Isolde spread some rich strawberry conserve on a piece of buttery flaking croissant and held it to the young woman's lips. Gabriela opened her mouth and took the food like a child being spoon fed. "That's a good girl," Isolde encouraged.

Gabriela had not quite realised just how hungry she was, the taste of the croissant was irresistible as she helped herself to more and drank the sweet cold orange, quenching the dryness of her throat.

"Look Gabriela, you need to understand that you and I are not rivals for Richard's affection. For me he is just a friend. A very good friend, I admit, but what you share with him goes beyond friendship... that is why he was so angry at what he saw as your betrayal."

"I would never betray Richard," Gabriela said rather defensively.

"I see that now darling, and I'm sorry that I did not understand before... Richard tells me that he desires a reconciliation with you. I think he is ready to forgive you. Your little outburst has brought him to his senses and I believe he has finally realised how much you mean to him."

"Really?... A reconciliation is all I want too."

"I can see that darling. I have spoken with him on the matter and I think he might want to... to formalise your relationship."

"How do you mean?"

"I think you know what I mean darling... he's thinking of marriage."

"Oh Miss Mosley, is that really true?"

Isolde nodded.

"Yes, it is, but you should call me Isolde now that we have become friends."

"Isolde, thank you... can I see Richard?"

"Yes, of course, but not right now... he has come up with a rather romantic plan... he wants to go back to where you first met and, how can I explain... he wants to reset the clock and make a fresh start."

"A new start would be perfect... when can we do this?"

"Well, I have an idea... as you know I am a stranger to Argentina. I thought maybe we could spend the day together and get to know each other better; you could show me some of the places of interest. Maybe I could get Juanita to prepare us a little picnic lunch and then in the evening Richard would like to meet you in the same place that he first met you."

"The Flamenco Rosa, you mean?"

"I believe that's where Richard said. He may not seem it on the surface, but he has rather a deep romantic streak and he tells me that because he first met you there, the club holds a sentimental connection for him."

"It's true, that it was where we first met, but I have changed so much since those days."

"Richard knows that... this is just his silly sentimentality... if you'd rather not?"

"No, no, if that's what Richard wants, just recently there have been girls attacked on the street. The place still has some bad memories for me... I want to forget that I was ever a..."

"No, don't say that word darling... I know you have put that life behind you now. Don't be ashamed of your past Gabriela, every girl has to survive in any way she can... I understand that. But in the future, you can look forward to be a society wife. In any case, don't worry about your safety, I will be with you... until Richard joins us. You know that you will be safe with him."

Gabriela nodded, the colour of her cheeks seemed restored, and the will to live reignited.

"I hardly understand what motivates Richard..." Isolde said. "I understand that he can be a very passionate man. Unlike you, I have little knowledge of such things."

"Richard can be... quite demanding when the mood takes him. I am embarrassed to talk about our bedroom life."

"Then we will draw a veil over it, but you will understand better than I what drives Richard's desire. Maybe you can understand why he wants to reset your first meeting... to make it more romantic this time.

"Yes, I think so... its fine Isolde, I will do anything that Richard wants if we can go back to how we were."

"You won't be going back to how it used to be. It will be far better than that darling. Richard has hinted at some of his plans for your life together."

"Is this true?"

"Oh yes, but I must leave it to Richard to discuss these things with you. It is hardly my place. Now get yourself ready Gabriela... make yourself beautiful for him, I will go and organise our lunch and see if Richard will let us take his car. It will be a lovely day out for us... and for you, embellished by the prospect of a quite magical ending."

Isolde made her way to the kitchens where she found the chef, Juanita, ferociously chopping a bunch of fresh herbs and filling the kitchen with the delicate fragrance of basil and thyme.

"Good morning Juanita."

"Good morning Miss Mosley... is there something you need?"

"Would you be so good as to prepare a picnic lunch for two?"

"Of course... is there anything special you would like?"

"I shall be taking Gabriela... I'm not sure if you have heard, but she is going to Mr Smythe's beach resort shortly and I would like to spend a little time with her before she leaves for... is it Monte Hermoso?"

"Monte Hermoso, though I have never been there myself."

"Maybe one day... getting back to Gabriela, I understand she has a fondness for the hot spicy foods that South American's love. Is there anything that would be suitable for a cold lunch?"

"I could make a nice gazpacho chilli soup... tomatoes, cucumbers, jalapeño chilli, shallots, garlic, a little vinegar... and a strong dose of hot Tabasco sauce," Juanita laughed, the gazpacho was clearly one of her own favourites.

"That sounds ideal for Gabriela... I'm afraid I cannot eat such a fiery dish... maybe a few cucumber sandwiches for me. Some cakes and fruit perhaps... oh, and wine... lots of wine."

"I will prepare you a hamper madam."

"You are most kind Juanita... I will collect it at say ten o'clock."

Juanita nodded.

With Gabriela seated next to her, Isolde piloted Richard's elegant Mercedes across the streets of the city. Gabriela directed her companion with obvious delight to views of the palaces, the bustling markets and then in the city centre, overlooking Plaza de Mayo, they spent some time admiring the Metropolitan Cathedral with its almost Ancient Greek style classical portico facade. Then they walked along the fashionable shopping district where at the high-end fashion boutique of Casa Vittorita, Gabriela eagerly advised Isolde on the purchase of several items to enhance her rather meagre wardrobe. They found an elegant day dress that Gabriela insisted she buy. This was a new world for Isolde, finally she had money to spend and now with Richard to impress, a reason to spend it.

At last they made their way to Parque Tres de Febrero. A sweeping open parkland filled with small lakes and delicately pretty gazebos. They drove past the huge equestrian monument of Justo José de Urquiza and eventually found a shaded grassy area, overlooking the cool green water of a small lake with dabbling waterfowl gathered at the edge. An ideal spot to take a picnic. It was already mid-afternoon when they sat together on a blanket and Isolde opened up the hamper.

"Juanita has made you some gazpacho soup... I understand it is fiery with plenty of hot sauce and chilli."

"Oh, it's so long since I had chilli, I must thank her when we get back."

"I'm afraid the hot spices are too much for me, I am just not used to them, they numb my palate... I will make do with some little English sandwiches."

Gabriela laughed... she seemed truly happy for the first time in many months.

"I adore chilli, but it is not to Richard's taste either... it might numb your palate a little, but the pleasure of chilli is in the fire."

"Ah, you have the hot blood of a Spanish noblewoman... I saw it in your eyes the moment we met."

The flattery made Gabriela blush, brought a pinkness to her cheeks, a glow of beauty that brought a renewed envy to Isolde's malicious eye.

"Let's have some wine," she said. "Are you any good with one of these?"

She held up a silver corkscrew.

"I have been known to pop the occasional cork," Gabriela said with a little sparkle of laughter.

"I'm sure you have," Isolde replied under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing Gabriela my dear... let's get nice and tipsy shall we."

They had almost finished the bottle of Chablis before Isolde brought out the gazpacho and poured the chilled contents from the vacuum flask into a crystal glass bowl. She took a delicate bite from her cucumber sandwich, pleasant enough, but the bread was cut rather too thickly for her taste, a quite unheard of faux pas.

"Go ahead Gabriela, eat up..."

The young woman took a mouthful.

"Mm delicious... Juanita is a magnificent cook... ah," she gasped, "and so hot!"

"Not too hot I hope."

"No, no, this is exactly how I like it... just like this."

Isolde popped the remaining corner of her cucumber sandwich into her mouth with a gentle smile.

"After the strength of your soup I suspect you won't be able to taste much else, what you will need with this gazpacho is a powerful red wine. She dipped her hand into the hamper and drew out a bottle of burgundy.

"I hope Richard will forgive me, but I have rather rifled through his wine cellar this morning."

She poured glasses of the dark red wine. Isolde lifted the glass up to the light, the sun flashed against the dark liquid and brought its colour to life, a dark crimson as she swirled it round... almost the colour of blood. She handed a glass to Gabriela before sipping at her own rather smaller measure.

"I'm not sure I should drink much more wine..." Gabriela said.

"Oh, nonsense darling, today is a day for celebration."

The young woman laughed and then gulped at the powerfully flavoured wine, but the subtly of the wine's character was lost to the fire of the chilli and Tabasco.

Gabriela finished all her soup and then together they demolished slices of Juanita's excellent tarte citron.

"How long have you known Richard?" Gabriela asked.

The wine had left the trace of a slur on her words.

"Oh, we met many years ago when we were students. He was a good friend, but our paths diverged. We have a little project to complete together and then I will be returning to England."

"Oh, I thought you were staying with Richard permanently."

"I think Richard has enough women in his life with you darling. In any case, there has never been any romance between us."

"Just good friends?"

"Exactly... more wine?"

"Just a splash then..."

Isolde drained the bottle into Gabriela's glass. The sun was already low in the sky and a little cloud was starting to gather darkly. Glancing at her watch Isolde estimated that it would be dark in little more than an hour.

"I think we should make a move... Richard will be waiting for you."

Gabriela made a little involuntary giggle.

"Darling Richard... I have to thank you Isolde, for bringing us together again... this is all your doing... I can see that."

She leaned across and kissed Isolde's cold cheek with her warm soft lips.

After a short drive across the rapidly darkening streets, the Mercedes pulled up on Avenida Callao, a little way from the lights of the Flamenco Rosa. The night club seemed a garish place to Isolde's restrained taste.

"As soon as Richard comes, I will leave you to his gentle care. In the meantime, why don't we walk a little, take in a little of the refreshing night air."

"I am feeling a little drowsy..."

"I blame myself for that, I'm afraid I let you drink a little too much wine."

"Mm, but it was so de-lith-ious... a walk might refresh me. But first, I need to repair my make-up." She took a small compact from her bag and dabbed at her cheeks and nose before applying a fresh coat of lipstick.

"You look beautiful darling, don't worry," Isolde said as she helped her companion from the car.

Isolde took Gabriela's arm. The young woman was a little unsteady on her tall heels.

"I feel a little dizzy..."

"Lean on me, we'll walk down to that alley and you can lean against the wall while you get your breath back."

The alley was within sight of the Flamenco Rosa, its neon bright against the dark sky. But it was still too early for the crowds to have gathered. The alleyway was cast in shadow, a rather foreboding place that might attract those wishing to conduct illicit transactions. As Isolde leaned Gabriela against the wall, she looked up to the worn stone steps that climbed up to the Apartamentos de Trabajadores. There was a street light at the top of the rise casting its pool of yellow light across the first few steps. A little light rain was just starting to fall, the droplets caught in the light seemed to fall like the tears of a thousand angels.

Gabriela took a deep breath, what she was feeling was not just the effects of too much wine. With a sudden flash of insight, she realised why the day's events had seemed so forced, so unreal. She had wanted what Isolde had told her to be true. Wanted it so much that she had allowed her reason to succumb to the honeyed words. Searching for Isolde's eyes in the darkness, she forced her numb lips to form a few simple words that emerged as little more than a rasping whisper:

"You're going to kill me, aren't you Isolde?"

"Oh darling... I already have... a little something I found in the potting shed. I thought it might add a touch of piquancy to your gazpacho."

Isolde had to listen carefully to hear Gabriela's last whispered utterance, it sounded like some course Spanish expletive followed by what might have been bitch.

"I may be a bitch, but I'm not a filthy whore like you."

Slowly, Gabriela sank to the ground, her eyes were glazed, a sheen of moisture across her forehead.

"You were born a whore, lived like a whore and you will die like a whore," Isolde spat, as she kicked at Gabriela's unresponsive shape.

Gabriela did not hear the venom of the words or feel the kicks. She fell quietly to her side, her face against the cold compassionless concrete. She looked at peace and even in death, far more beautiful than her murderess.

Isolde felt for a pulse, but Gabriela's heart had stopped, there was nothing left of the vivacious young woman, save for a memory of a tragic life that might have held such promise. Looking around for anyone who might be approaching down the dark alley, Isolde lifted the dead woman's skirts and then pulled down her pants, exposing her intimacy to the rain and stare of the chill evening. She tore at Gabriela's blouse to make it look like some frenzied violation had caused her heart attack. Then maintaining her composure Isolde Mosley pulled herself up to her full height and walked away, back through the gentle rain to the waiting Mercedes. She drove back quietly, taking a circuitous and rather long route back. Peering through the regular slap of the wiper blades, she saw Gabriela's eyes reflecting back at her more than she saw the shimmer of the wet twisting road. Isolde parked for a while in a high spot overlooking the ocean. The water was black and eternal, stretching out with nothing to see, but the occasional bobbing flash of a small boat's navigation lights. It took her almost two hours before she saw the lights of Avenida del San Martin and the solid white facade of her new home... Liebestod. Try as she might, Isolde could not quite rid her mind of the beautiful young woman that she had left in the rain.
Chapter Twenty

By the time Isolde had reached Richard's house, it was past nine and the sky was starting to clear, allowing the moon shadows to form unnerving shapes across the trellises and topiary. She eased the Mercedes though the garage doors and stopped the engine, pausing a moment to listen to the silence. She let out a long slow breath, finally releasing the tension that had gripped her all day. Despite the irrational need to move silently, the spacious garage made her footsteps echo as she walked up the winding internal stairs into the house. Inside it felt calm and warm, as if everything was quite normal and she had not spent the day committing the ultimate violation. Isolde realised how at home she felt here in Richard's house, already comfortable in the extravagance and luxury that was so far removed from the material privation of her life in London.

Harry Fielding came out to meet her. She turned her head to him, suddenly and irrationally concerned that he might be able to detect some trace of her infamy.

"Mr Smythe has been worried, he expected you home earlier."

His German accent was uncomfortably noticeable to Isolde.

"You are alone?" he asked.

"Yes, quite alone."

She felt no need to elaborate.

"Gabriela is not with you?"

"As I said. Is Richard in the sitting room?" Isolde asked.

Fielding simply nodded; he was a man who never betrayed his emotions and was difficult for Isolde to read, but she could recognise menace when she saw it.

"I'll go and find him," she said.

Despite her fragile emotional state, the thought of Richard sent a shiver of desire across her body. Harry watched her as she turned to walk away. He knew he had been dismissed, but he also knew that Gabriela had accompanied her on her outing and was more than a little suspicious. He called after her:

"Should I expect Gabriela back soon, you know she is not supposed to be left free to wander."

"You need not concern yourself with Gabriela... that will be all Fielding."

Harry's eyes narrowed, but Isolde had already turned away and did not see the expression. She might have been chilled if she had. Isolde was already wary of Harry Fielding, seeing him as a rather sinister character, not unlike a vicious fighting dog, feigning docility, but biding his time... it was just a feeling.

Isolde found Richard sitting in his buttoned-leather arm chair. He was smoking one of his slender cigars. Isolde loved the smell of an expensive cigar. The gramophone was turned low but was playing a well-used recording of a Wagner overture.

"Ah, the Tannhäuser overture... it always brings me to tears... so emotional, so powerful."

Richard looked up, a curl of cigar smoke drifted up.

"Isolde, I was expecting you earlier... did it go according to plan?"

"You won't have to worry about her anymore," Isolde said.

She slipped off her coat and let it fall to the floor unnoticed.

"Do you have any brandy?" Isolde asked, suddenly in need of some fortification.

She sat opposite Richard and crossed her legs. He stood and poured two generous measures of cognac and brought the decanter back with him, placing it within easy reach on the card table next to him.

"You... got a commitment that she will never speak of what she discovered?" Richard said.

"She will never speak," Isolde said, taking a mouthful of her brandy.

"You can be certain?"

Isolde looked up from her glass, her face was pale.

"You want details?" she asked.

Richard looked long and hard at her face. He wondered how he might have _resolved the problem with Gabriela_ , as she had so delicately put it – if their positions were reversed. The answer was obvious, but not really what he expected of Isolde.

"She's dead, isn't she?" he asked.

"It was the only way Richard... in your heart you knew that. I could see that you still held on to a fondness for her... I spared you having to make that decision."

Richard nodded. He was a callous man, one who had murdered many, many innocents without a flinch of remorse. As he stood and poured more brandy into Isolde's glass, she caught sight of a wetness to his eye, not even a fully formed tear and by the time he had taken his seat again, his composure was restored.

"I'll miss her pattering about the place," he said, as if the young vibrant woman were nothing more than a fond pet who had reached the stage when euthanasia was the kindest option. "You did the right thing Isolde... thank you. I don't need to know the details."

"No, I'll spare you that... the child did not suffer. She was happy, I told her that you intended marrying her."

Richard's hands went up to his mouth, he tried to stifle the sob that burst from him. Isolde was at his side in an instant, her arms round him.

"I'm sorry Richard."

"No, no, I'm fine..."

He pushed her away, embarrassed by his show of emotion.

"It was just the imagery of her childlike innocence that caught me off guard for an instant."

He knew that it was Gabriela's fondest wish that one day they might marry. _Perhaps it might even have happened if things had been different_... he thought, the prospect lingering in a sentimental fog for just an instant before he dismissed it as a momentary lapse into pathos.

He held his hand out to Isolde, she kneeled down at his feet laying her head in his lap. Both in need of reassurance, they rocked silently together until Isolde lifted herself up to him and whispered into his ear.

"Take me to bed Richard... I'll make you forget her."

Isolde woke early, just as the first shimmer of cold daylight filled the sky. She was still in his room, still in his bed. Their lovemaking had been different, somehow gentler. Even so, Richard had skilfully brought her to climax upon climax until his own lust was satiated and then exhausted, he fell almost immediately into a deep sleep. She turned her head towards him and saw his eyes open.

"That little display of emotion last evening..." he said, as if it had been troubling him all night.

The dark art of deception was not unknown to Isolde. She knew all about it... especially self-deception.

"You mean my display of emotion... I'm sorry if it upset you... I won't repeat it," she said.

"Yes, yes, of course... "

"Richard... I seem to find myself still in your bed... I hope you don't mind."

"I think I can overlook it, just once," he said as a confused composure settled over him. "Waking to the presence of a woman is something I might grow accustomed to."

Isolde thought she could see a narrow smile on his lips but was not certain. She sat up taking a deep breath. Her eyes fell onto the golden statue, it seemed to be watching them, maybe with a look of contempt. Whatever it was, the statue seemed to unsettle her, as if it somehow knew what she had done out in the rain, under the watchful lights of the Flamenco Rosa.

"We fly out tomorrow... I can hardly wait," she said to distract her thoughts.

"It will be an experience for you Isolde."

"Tell me about the Buddha on the table, over there."

Richard was silent for a while, he inched himself up the bed and stared at the golden image. Something about him changed, as if his mind were like a wireless set tuned slightly off the correct frequency; a squealing distortion of thought.

"I'm not a superstitious man Isolde, but the damn thing has cursed me... every time I look at it, it fills me with... a feeling... something I can only call dread."

"I never really notice before, but you are right. His eyes seem to look right through you. Even his calm smile seems filled with cynicism."

"There you see, its true... even you can sense it".

Richard held his head in his hands as if something was gnawing away at his brain.

"Ever since I heard of its existence, I lusted after it... when it was finally discovered by my men, I felt compelled to keep it... do you understand? It was mine. Only you will ever hear these words Isolde, but... I have grown to fear it."

"Why not dispose of it?"

"Yes, yes," he said with a sudden bite of irritation in his voice, "I intend to... I have been waiting for an opportunity, and now that I am committed to returning to the Himalayas, I intend repatriating it... as far away from me as possible. I have no explanation for the effect the Buddha has on me... maybe it is entwined in some spirit of _Kismet_... what do they call it out there, karma is it?"

Isolde remembered a paper she had written on the subject years ago.

"Karma is the concept of action or deed, the principal that causes the entire cycle of cause and effect. Kismet is the action of fate, implying a predetermined course of events over which we have no control."

She spoke as if she were reciting a litany.

"Then it must be karma that I'm talking about... when I was out there in Tibet, I never gave any credence to their beliefs, you know... thinking them to be primitive and without foundation. They are of course, but..."

His eyes drifted away as if seeing a ghost hovering in the corner.

Isolde watched him in the silence, some internal battle seemed to be taking place, then turning his face to her, he continued.

"After living under the malign stare of that statue, I am no longer sure. Whatever happens, the Buddha will not return with us when our mission is complete."

"You think returning it to Tibet will lift this... this curse?"

"God alone knows... be sceptical if you must, but I feel it is what I must do."

"Richard this statue is not the Sang Khor Buddha is it?"

"Yes, what do you know of it?" he snapped.

"No, nothing really... it has cropped up in some of the research I have done over the years... I had no idea that it was in your possession... Richard, this statue is worth an absolute fortune."

"In theory... but, no one would buy such a thing and I can't bring myself to melt it down for the value of the gold."

"The Buddha was part of the treasure you liberated just before the outbreak of war?"

"I made sure some of the finer pieces stayed with me... the Reich got more than its fair share. How else do you think I financed my escape to Argentina? My personal family wealth was all lost to the ravages of war."

"Not everything that you liberated was lost in the Junkers' crash?"

"No, far from it, that fatal flight was one of many. Even so, there was an enormous amount of gold on that Junkers 52... I remember watching it take off into the teeth of a storm as if it were just yesterday..."

His eyes glazed as he recalled the day at the monastery. He remembered being unsettled by something else all those years ago... the sound of some abominable howl, caught on the distant wind.

"No," he said. "The crashed Junkers was not the only flight out of Tibet in 1938. It was, however, the only one that I intended wholly for my own personal coffers... maybe the Sang Khor curse was what caused the crash in the first place."

"You'll soon have me believing in this curse if you're not careful Richard."

She inched herself closer to him feeling the warmth of his skin, the rasp of his unshaven face as she nuzzled him. He laughed.

"Maybe I'm just imagining it, but my mind is made up to take that damned statue as far from here as possible."

"It seems a shame to destroy such a significant relic."

"I have the feeling that I would be unable to destroy it if I tried."

"So, take it to the Himalayas and all will be forgiven?"

"Maybe... "

"But it has such immense value."

Richard shrugged.

"You can see how well I live Isolde... you think I need any more wealth?"

"Then why chase after the gold at all?"

"The gold in that aircraft represents unfinished business for me."

He laughed. In a normal man it might have been a self-deprecating laugh, but in Richard's case it came from a darker place, a place of disquiet, a place of unbalanced neurones.

"Then we will recover it together and at the same time send that damnable Sang Khor statue back to the gates of hell."

Isolde listened as Richard stretched and then let out a long sigh. She caught his eyes for a moment but had to look away, no matter how strong her physical desire for him was, there was and always had been, something about the man that filled her with something close to dread. Something that was corrosive and yet at the same time infinitely compelling for her.

"I love that duelling scar," she said as she traced a finger across the line of it, their faces so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

"One day I'll tell you the truth about it..." he said.

"Oh, please don't... I would hate my fantasy to be ruined."

Richard lifted his head and kissed Isolde, biting her lower lip until she mewled with the pain. She pulled back from him and slid her legs from the warm softness of the bed.

"Don't leave me just yet," Richard said, his words coming as an instruction, not a request.

"As you wish Richard... tell me about Nepal."

"Nepal... a confounded place... I was in Kathmandu in '38 before venturing up into Tibet. In those days I had the power of the Reich behind me... Himmler himself authorising my actions... did you know that? This time it will be very different. We will have to negotiate our path with subtlety not brute force."

"Have you decided how we will proceed?"

"Time is not on our side, but with your research we may have an edge over the others. We will need to establish ourselves in Kathmandu. I've asked Fielding to see if he can locate a light aircraft when we get there. With its aid we will be up to the foothills within a few hours."

"Does Fielding know how to pilot an aircraft?"

"No, but I do."

"Your talents never cease to amaze me Richard."

Richard nodded as if he took that for granted.

"I intend enlisting a group of Sherpa's to help with the heavy work and act as local guides... Beyond that, we will be in the hands of... kismet... is it?"

"I'm not sure I believe in fate. I believe that our own actions determine our outcomes... look at yourself Richard... my dear Siegfried," she added in a whisper, as if speaking his real name aloud was an act of blasphemy. "All you have achieved is as a result of what you have done... your actions driven by the power of your will."

"My god Isolde, it's good to have a woman at my side who thinks as I do... this little talk has made me forget all about that strumpet who used to desecrate my bed... what was her name?"

"I can't imagine who you are referring to..." Isolde said. "Was there ever really any other woman in your life, but me?"

"Plenty of trivial pretty diversions... but, women like you? I think not Isolde... now come here."

He lifted his weight up onto her and Isolde looked into his face, she could see the shadow of a monster, there behind his eyes, but she did not care... that monster owned her, she was his to use at his pleasure.

By the time the afternoon had arrived, the packing and preparation for the journey was complete. Richard summoned Harry to his study to give instructions for the staff. He intended not to shut the house down in his absence but would keep the staff on in his absence.

"Ah, Fielding... come in. All your packing complete?"

"You know me sir. I like to travel light, one case is all I need."

"Good... I would like you to talk to the staff. In our absence, unless you wish to advise me differently, I intend placing Juanita in charge. She is used to running the kitchens and the additional responsibility of house maids and gardeners will hardly tax her. All the staff will have light duties without us to look after, so I imagine they might see this as something of a holiday... I want the house maintained in perfect condition at all times, and you can tell Juanita that I will hold her personally responsible for any breakdown in household discipline."

"I will pass on your wishes, sir. I agree that Juanita should be left in charge, there is really no other alternative... may I ask about Miss Gabriela Maria?... is she expected to return to the house while we are away?"

"In some ways she might have been useful to maintain the standards in our absence, but that is not possible... as it stands Fielding, I would prefer to leave Miss Mosley behind to run the house, but she is determined to accompany us, and I feel disinclined to upset her over the matter."

"I understand, sir... and Miss Gabriela, she is now at Monte Hermoso?"

"Yes, you can confirm that with the staff when you instruct them."

"But, is it the truth?"

"Why do you ask that Fielding?"

"Are you unwilling to trust me with truth after all we have been through?"

"I see, you are suspicious Fielding, I can understand that... we did talk of a more drastic solution following Gabriela's outburst... but, Miss Mosley took her under her wing and convinced her that taking up residence in the Monte Hermoso property would be her best option. Gabriela Maria will not speak Harry, we are both still quite safe."

Harry nodded and totally unconvinced by what he had been told, turned and left Richard to his paperwork. The morning's newspapers contained, tucked away near the back section, a report of another murder in the red-light district. There were no photographs of the victim, but her description could easily have fit Gabriela. Until he saw her in the flesh, Harry would continue to dread that his sweet Gabriela was no longer living. He could not quite forgive Richard Smythe nor the Mosley woman for that.

Richard tapped on Isolde's bedroom door and entered the room. He could hear her shower running and sat on one of the upholstered chairs, waited until she emerged. The temptation to join her in the shower was nothing more than a fleeting notion. When Isolde made her exit from the bathroom suite she was dressed in a towel.

"Richard... you should have called... I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"No... I just came to see how you are."

"I'm fine." she sat on her bed and began towelling her hair.

There was little left of the dour librarian now... even the woman that Richard had met at the airport was changed, blossomed into a mature sophisticated woman. Of course, that woman had already been there, hidden under the dusty carapace of her London life and now under the warmth of the Argentinian sun she had emerged like a phoenix, a phoenix with blood on her claws.

"We may have to watch Fielding," Richard said. "I'm certain he suspects what really happened to Gabriela... even in death the woman continues to trouble me."

"Would Fielding be concerned by her death? From what you have told me, he is hardly innocent in such matters himself."

"I've seen how he used to look at her... Gabriela was not interested in him, I know that... she would, however, occasionally flirt with him from a distance. She enjoyed teasing the men over whom she had a little power. Fielding may have interpreted things differently. The fact is, I am no longer sure that his obedience is quite so unquestioning."

"Then dismiss him," Isolde said, as she slipped into her dress.

It was the one that Gabriela had advised her to buy at Casa Vittorita.

"If we can no longer trust him, then surely he is a liability."

"I need him Isolde or at least someone with his skills... he has served me well in the past."

Isolde turned to him, she knew he was a strong man almost superhuman in his will, it was one of the reasons that she was unable to resist him, why she melted inside at the sound of his resonant authoritative voice.

"Then we will use him as a pawn until the gold is ours... when this is over, we can send him on his way with his own little fortune to salve his pride."

"And if he turns on us?"

"Then you will crush him, like one of your empty cigar packets."

Richard laughed, a bellowing laugh.

"You are what I always needed my darling Isolde, with your absolute belief in me... very well, tomorrow we will set out on an adventure of a lifetime... a flight to the wilds of Nepal to find my Junkers 52 and brush away the years of snow from its crippled carcase. I know what treasures were in its hold and I feel in my bones that they are still there waiting for us to collect them. I have a destiny to fulfil and with you at my side how can I fail?"
Chapter Twenty-one

The heat of the afternoon had been almost too much, but now as the sun rode lower in the sky a cooler evening breeze brought air, fragrant with the scent of wild herbs, drifting down from the hills. A child emerged suddenly from some ancient stone steps, worn hollow by a million footfalls. He ran blindly across the dusty road, miraculously avoiding a rickety diesel bus as it chugged its gossiping passengers away towards the city outskirts. He was aged about eight or nine, barefoot, with tears streaked across his cheeks and a brown hen clutched protectively under his arm. Turning back for an instant to see if he was being followed, he failed to see the woman in western dress picking her way past the vegetable merchants bartering their piled goods spread out along the ground. When the child turned his eyes again it was too late, he ran straight into the woman, tipping her from her new polished leather hiking boots onto the flat of her back. The hen was dropped, and it took the opportunity to scurry off with a flutter of clipped wings and a panicked cackling until it disappeared down an alley. The child looked bereft, the loss of the hen – a gift for his mother, taken as a tragedy. He sat down on the hard flagstones and sobbed. Isolde struggled to her feet and slapped the child about his ears.

"You stupid boy, why don't you look where you are going?"

He looked up at her with his dark eyes, wide with incomprehension, the foreign words meaningless to him.

"Oh, do come on Isolde, we don't have time for this..." Richard said as he caught sight of what had happened.

Isolde's first foray out into the town did little to endear her to Kathmandu. Abandoning her pointless tirade against the child, she brushed herself down and quickened her pace, struggling to keep up with Richard as he strode confidently across Thamel. He suddenly burst out into the road, halting the trucks and rickshaws with an arrogant wave of his stout walking cane. Once across the road, he turned and watched as Isolde was left standing bewildered, hounded by a sudden onslaught of street hawkers and beggars attracted by the sight of a rich foreigner.

"Come on Isolde, don't dawdle," Richard called above the clamour.

She finally caught up with him as he squeezed into a too-narrow street packed with shops selling endless permutations of bric-a-brac: carpets, paintings, colourful pottery... everything you could never want. She took his arm as a refuge against the ferment.

"Not so fast Richard, please, this is all new to me..."

She was feeling angry at the world, irritated by Richard but would not show it. Not until the fragile cement of their relationship was cured hard and durable.

A wizened old man was ferociously pulling a laden wooden cart across the cobbles towards them. Richard pulled Isolde out of the man's way with a protective sweep of his arm and Isolde wrapped her arms round him and closed her eyes for a minute searching for a little composure.

"Is everything all right my liebling?" he asked.

She could feel the prick of tears behind her eyes.

"Just hold me for a moment," she requested.

A group of mangy dogs idled at the corner, watching the aimlessly meandering sacred cows that seemed to have the freedom of the city. Finally releasing herself from Richard's protective embrace, Isolde eyed the dogs with suspicion, as if they might be wolves in wolves clothing.

"I thought London was a hectic city, but at least there you can find a measure of order amongst the chaos."

"This is not our world," Richard said, "We must learn to play the game by their rules."

"Are there rules?" Isolde asked.

"Probably not... a pattern of confusion perhaps."

"You say the nicest things Richard," she replied brightening. "Just let me catch my breath."

Isolde leaned against the wall, removed her glasses and let her eyes fall out of focus. In the distance she caught sight of a man. He seemed oddly familiar, medium height, quite ordinary really yet something about his bearing seemed to shout British to her. She replaced her glasses for a clearer view. At his side was a rather attractive young woman. They seemed to be bartering for the purchase of a brightly coloured silk scarf. It flashed red with flecks of gold in the last rays of the afternoon sun. Isolde watched as the young woman slipped the scarf round her neck. She seemed happy, engaged in the moment, as she bubbled with easy laughter. The man brought out some notes and thrust them towards the vendor. As his face shifted from the shadow, Isolde was suddenly stopped short.

"My god... Richard, it's him."

"Him who?"

"The journalist... Peters."

"By god is it? Best if we do not let him see us," Richard said. "I was not expecting this... at least it shows that the confounded journalist has not stolen a march on us."

He ran his fingers through his silvering hair and craned his neck for a closer look.

"He seems to have a woman with him... do you know her?"

"No, but she's clearly not a local." Isolde said as she gripped Richard's arm.

"You should take care of him while we have the opportunity Richard," she urged.

Richard checked his watch.

"I wanted to get back to the hotel and see how Fielding had got on with assessing the aircraft he had located."

"Do you really intend buying an airplane, just for a jaunt across to the mountains?"

"I've told Fielding to use his judgement...leasing it would be my preference. If I have to buy it, it will hardly embarrass my resources... "

"I suppose not... I'm so used to having to be careful with my money that all this extravagance is taking some time to get used to."

"Then get used to it quickly, because from now on you will be living like a queen."

"You spoil me Richard... so, shall we follow the reporter?"

"I suppose we have time," Richard said. "Let's hang back and follow at a distance, see if we can discover where they are staying."

Isolde removed her glasses again and started polishing the lenses with a soft cotton handkerchief, bleached to the colour of fresh snow. The glasses were newly purchased, just before she had left London; the frames were in a rather daring fashionable style. Not the sort she would normally have selected, but she chose them as a symbol of her new life, her new freedom. She seemed to remember the assistant commenting on how attractive they looked, highlighting the elegant features of her face. Isolde was not easily flattered... she believed.

"Do you have a weapon Richard?" she said under her breath.

"A weapon, certainly not Isolde... would you like me to call in a panzer division perhaps?"

The humour sparkled in his eyes, but his expression remained stoically unsmiling, just a slight twitch from his alluring cheek scar. Isolde was unsure if the comment was meant to be a joke or an attempt at sarcasm. She chose to ignore it.

"If I decide that the man needs to be eliminated then it will be a job for Fielding. It may not be necessary in any case. Our best course of action may well be to keep a low profile..."

"Yes, you are right of course, as always... it's just that the man rather annoys me with his perpetual good humour and simpering politeness."

"And that is sufficient cause to warrant his murder?"

Richard smiled, but it was without warmth, a rather chilling expression of smugness.

"Perhaps you and I are even closer matched than I dared imagine, my dear Isolde."

"What time is Aadarsh meeting us?" Loretta asked.

"Any time now... he's a reliable fellow, but you know him, he runs to the pace of Nepal, the exact time is a foreign concept to him."

"It's because they have no trains... no timetables to adhere to."

"An interesting idea... did you just think that up?"

"Hardly... it's well known that the invention of steam trains required a standardisation of time across Britain."

"I never really thought about it."

"No, sorry to bore you Graham..." she said with a mischievous smile. "Let's make our way to the temple, it would be unfair to keep him waiting even if he has no timetable, he's been so good to us." She held out her hand for Graham and they walked together under the lengthening shadows, Loretta's new scarf still round her neck.

"You paid far too much for this darling," Loretta said as she slid her fingers across the silky fabric.

"It was worth it to see your smile."

"I'm always smiling Graham."

"Think of it as a symbol of my undying love," he said.

Loretta pulled him against the wall with a firm, but persistent lean of her weight against his chest. Now at ease in displaying her passion, she kissed his lips with a sweet tenderness.

"Thank you," she said, as if the scarf was the most precious gift she had ever received.

"Look, there's the temple, I don't think Aadarsh has arrived yet, there's no sign of him."

The air was filled with a thousand scents, the spicy aromas of cooking, a memory of diesel fumes hanging against the sweet aroma of cut flowers, and as they approached the temple a delicate trace of incense wafted down to them.

A young woman, barely more than a child, moving slowly and gracefully, was making a puja, a ritual offering of marigold blossoms, then ringing a bell to alert the gods. The more time Loretta spent in this strange country, the more she realised that these people, living in apparent poverty were spiritually rich beyond anything she could imagine.

"Look, look the Jeep..." Loretta bubbled, standing on her tiptoes like a child suddenly spotting a long lost friend.

She had grown to trust Aadarsh in the days she had known him and for her, Aadarsh and his faithful Jeep were inextricably linked. In her mind, they seemed to go together, as if it were a law of nature, like the law that demands the pairing of strawberries and cream, fish and chips or, she thought... Graham and Loretta. She looked into Graham's face and beamed with contentment.

"Hello Mr Graham," Aadarsh called as he brought his machine to a sudden squealing halt. "And the lovely, Miss Loretta."

He kissed her hand as if he were an Italian gigolo practising his art.

"Please climb aboard, Kamala is already preparing a meal for us. It will be marvellous."

"She spoils us with her wonderful cooking," Loretta smiled.

The Jeep made an indiscrete turn against the flow of traffic and headed back up towards the hills where Aadarsh's home nestled among the canopy of pale green trees.

As the Jeep drove away two figures emerged from the shadows, they watched until it was out of sight, disappearing around a corner in a cloud of dust.

"So, our journalist has made friends with one of the locals... well, we can't follow now. Let's get back to the hotel and see how well Fielding has got on."

"You don't seem overly concerned about Peters."

"We have all the advantages Isolde, your additional research has given us a much more precise idea of where the Junkers can be found, and with the aircraft which I'm sure Fielding will secure, we will travel to the foothills far more quickly than Peters can. The man is just a journalist, I doubt he has the fortitude to represent much of a problem."

They made their way back to the Candra Hotel, newly established and the most expensive in Kathmandu. He found that Fielding had already returned from his appointment. He was sitting in the bar drinking a bottle of locally brewed Kasauli-Lion beer.

"Ah Fielding, you have the look of a man who is at ease with himself. I take it your day has been successful," Richard asked. "Let's go to my room, we can discuss things in private."

A man of few words, Harry Fielding simply nodded and followed Richard and Isolde to their room. It would be a mistake, however, to assume that Fielding's natural reticence in any way reflected a lack of independence in the way he saw the world, or in those he respected.

"So, was Richard correct?" Isolde asked.

"About my success? I believe so."

He shifted his eyes from Isolde's to Richard's, and the tone of his voice away from one of mild disdain.

"The aircraft is a twin-engine machine, American built, I believe... a Beechcraft 18. It appears to be in reasonable condition, but I think it has led a hard life. I understand it started out as a military unit then it was brought out here and converted for use as an agricultural sprayer. The interior is fairly Spartan, but I believe it will serve our purpose rather well."

"Have you seen it in the air?"

"No, but the owner, a Scandinavian by the name of Nils Svensson, assures me that it is fully airworthy."

"Good, we'll need to take a test flight to confirm that. As long as it will take us to the valley, I am unconcerned by its level of comfort."

"I took the liberty of arranging a test for first thing tomorrow... As soon as it gets light."

"Excellent, an early rise tomorrow then. Well done Fielding, as always you have shown yourself to be most reliable."

"Now, let us see what culinary delights these people have on offer. My appetite is rather sharp. In the meantime, will you take another beer?"

Graham and Loretta rose early, the sky was mottled with a haze of pink edged cloud, but the air, even at this time in the morning, was still pleasantly warm. They took some tea and sat together on the two-seater swinging chair that hung on the veranda. It was their favourite spot in Aadarsh's house. The children were still sleeping, and the house was quiet and peaceful. In the distance they could hear the faint drone of an aircraft circling over the city.

"So, it's decided... we are definitely going after the crashed Junkers?" Loretta asked as she sipped at her tea.

"It seems a shame to have come all this way without trying to find it... if a couple of bumblers like Earnest Pollock and his colleague Jack Thomas can stumble on it, then we must have a fighting chance."

"I'm hopeful we may find some physical evidence to support the yeti sightings. I still don't have anywhere near enough to be able to realistically submit a scientific paper for publication."

"Especially, I imagine, as the subject matter is rather controversial."

"You have hit the nail smack on the head darling... if I put the story out there without having a cast iron case, I think it's fair to say that proposing the existence of Yeti with no hard evidence would be catastrophic to my credibility... and any future career I might aspire to."

"We certainly don't want that, but according to the two textile agents the plane is right in the area that the locals consider to be Yeti territory. There's a good chance that we may find something... if the creatures actually exist."

"You heard that howl as well as I did Graham."

"I can't argue with that, nor can I quite explain it to my satisfaction... I take it you have plenty of film for your camera."

"Of course, and sample jars, even a Sherlock Holmes style magnifying glass."

She let out a little self-effacing giggle.

"I love it when you laugh," Graham said, nuzzling the soft hollow of her neck.

"Mm... so, when do you propose that we set off? And, more importantly, how are we going to travel up to the valley of the Yeti?"

"I was hoping Aadarsh might come or at least lend us his Jeep, at the moment he seems rather occupied with some entrepreneurial scheme of his own, something to do with a well drilling machine."

"In the scheme of things, drilling for water might be a far more valuable pursuit than a hare-brained treasure hunt."

"Hare-brained?"

Loretta laughed. "Sorry... so, have you actually discussed it with Aadarsh?"

"Not in detail... I rather let it be known that finding the Junkers was something I was interested in, but so far he hasn't quite risen to the bait."

"Aadarsh has been so good to us Graham, I don't feel we should impose on him too much, in fact, I'm sure he and Kamala must be wanting to get the full use of their home back."

"I'm sure you're right. I'll send a telegram to Bambridge, see if he will finance the expedition, the fact is my funds are melting away more quickly than I expected."

"I wish I could help you darling, but I don't have two farthings to rub together. If you intend sending a telegram maybe we could go into Kathmandu and possibly cheer ourselves up with a little lunch at the Nepal Hotel..."

"As long as we keep the bill down to just the one farthing, you mean."

"Oh no, I think you, or at least the lovely Mr Bambridge, will be paying."

"Sounds like a perfect plan dear heart."

They watched as the circling aircraft came closer. It turned rather abruptly, then started on a deep dive before pulling up sharply. It curved across the sky towards them, flying low across the dips and rises of the hills, almost as if it was on a collision course with the house, then at the last minute it lifted its nose and performed an elegant roll before heading for the distance of Kathmandu and disappearing into the cloud cover.

Richard slowed the Beechcraft as he approached the makeshift landing strip. His landing was precise and gentle, once on the ground he taxied the aircraft back to the small truck that was parked at the edge of the strip. Richard and Fielding scrambled from the machine.

"You fly very well Mr Smythe," Nils Svensson called to the two men who were pacing towards his quietly rusting half ton Ford pickup.

He slithered down from the truck's bonnet from where he had been watching the aerobatics.

"She's more than adequate for my purposes, a little sluggish in the turns perhaps, but plenty of power and nicely controllable. She'll handle the icy conditions?"

"Sure, as long as you don't exceed her ceiling."

"What is her rating?"

"She's rated for up to 26,000 feet."

"That should be adequate, I'm not intending flying across the Himalayas...

"So, we have a deal Mr Smythe?"

"I believe so... I'll take a month's lease as long as you shave your price a little."

Sven beamed, his original plans for the aircraft had been to set up a short haul transport company flying from Kathmandu to outlying centres. But, the scheme had run into financial difficulties and now the Beechcraft was idle and up for sale. Any extra income that it might generate in the meantime would be more than welcome.

Sven dropped the two men back at their hotel before edging his truck through the streets and disappearing into the throng of locals.

Richard found Isolde still in bed even though it was well past nine.

"You feeling all right?" he asked in an unusual display of concern.

"Mm, fine..." Isolde stretched herself like a waking cat. "Just being lazy."

Richard sat on the side of the bed.

"Did it all go to plan?" she asked, sitting up against the mound of soft pillows.

"Yes, the plane is ideal, we should prepare to leave within the next couple of days. You are still comfortable about a foray into the wilderness? It will not be without hardship."

"As long as I have you to take care of me, I have no fears Richard... Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
Chapter Twenty-two

Having sent his telegram to the offices of the Custodian, Graham and Loretta made their way to the Nepal Hotel. There was little more to do for the moment and they sauntered at a leisurely pace enjoying the morning sun. The Nepal Hotel had changed recently, it was now an establishment that was being driven to modernise, to realise what a rich vein of revenue the fledgling tourist industry represented. Gradually the service was bending to cater for the tastes of the growing numbers of western visitors. On entering, Graham guided Loretta towards the restaurant.

"Graham... you see those two men, Americans by the look of them... I seem to recognise them."

"Ah, yes... the Americans... I thought they might have gone home by now."

"Am I right? It's Ed and, what's his colleague's name?"

"Mike, Mike Dean and Ed Stewart."

"That's right, what a coincidence. I remember them trying to flirt with me in London."

"That sounds like them, actually they were here when I was following the Everest expedition."

"You never mentioned them."

"Well, it didn't seem important... they got wind of the Yeti incident... that sort of thing is right up their street. Shall we pretend we haven't noticed them?"

Loretta smiled at the thought.

"As I remember, they are rather... well _American_ , but it would be rude to ignore them."

"If you're sure, once we say hello they are likely to dominate the proceedings. We can kiss our quiet lunch goodbye."

"I don't mind... they might even offer to buy us lunch?" Loretta said, with one of her humorously quizzical expressions.

"There is that, I suppose."

As Graham spoke Ed Stewart's eyes, which had been closely tracking the voluptuous gait of a rather attractive waitress, alighted on the English pair.

"Well, I'll be... Graham Peters and..."

Loretta held out her hand as she walked across the polished hardwood floor. Her lipstick smile broad and friendly.

"Loretta..." she said.

"Yes, you are..." Ed said. "Well hello again, Loretta."

He took her hand in a gentle squeeze and then grasped Graham's proffered hand in an expansive hand shake.

"You sly old rascal, you told me Loretta was not with you."

"That was a while ago Ed. I've been back home since then and Loretta was kind enough to offer to..."

"Carry your bags... I get the message. So, what are you doing here?"

"Here at the hotel or in the country in general?"

By now Mike had left his bourbon on the bar and was also engaged in shaking hands and slapping backs.

"Both I guess," Ed continued. "Hey Mike, Graham tells me he's been home and come back."

"Must be something special to bring you all the way out here again Graham."

"Possibly... actually Ed, we just popped in to grab a spot of lunch. We had no idea that you chaps were still in the country."

"Say, why don't you let us buy you lunch, you can even get a decent steak here these days."

Graham and Loretta exchanged a knowing look, but Loretta was not quite able to stifle the brief giggle.

"Well that's awfully decent of you Ed," Graham said.

"Not at all... they've just installed a European chef in the kitchens, goes by the name of Mau-rice. A nice enough guy, but I think he's swings counter clockwise if you get my drift."

"Each to his own..." Graham said.

"My view exactly... so, old bean, we've established that you are here for lunch... what about the bigger picture? I'm guessing you can still get a decent lunch in London, no need to come this far."

"Now, don't go pestering the man, Ed... not until we get a few drinks inside him to loosen his tongue," Mike said as he took Loretta's arm and drew her towards the bar.

"Gin and tonic with ice and lemon wasn't it?"

"My, what a big memory you have grandma..."

"All the better to remember your beauty."

"Mm... except its lemon, but no ice."

"No ice?... You British have the strangest tastes," he turned his face to Graham "We're drinking bourbon..."

"I might prefer a beer if it's no trouble."

"No trouble at all."

He clicked his finger to attract the attention of the barman.

With the meal finished, they sat sipping brandy, the conversation slowed as the reserves of small talk finally became exhausted. Ed pulled out a pack of Chesterfields and offered one to Loretta.

"No, thank you," she said.

"Not a smoker eh? Just like Graham."

"I have enough vices to contend with," Loretta said.

Ed smiled and wondered just what vices she was referring to.

"Cards on the table Graham..." Mike said, as he took one of Ed's Chesterfields. "We sort of guess that you are here in Kathmandu for the same reason that we are."

"And that is?" Graham said.

Ed drained his glass of brandy.

"We wrote up the Yeti piece, but frankly when you picked over the carcase of the story there really wasn't that much to tell... despite what we thought, after paying those two textile agents, we hardly made a buck out of it..."

"Sorry to hear that... are those two characters still in Kathmandu?"

"Flew back to London a couple of weeks back. I guess they've had their fill of adventure for one lifetime."

"Actually, Loretta has an interest in following up their encounter with the fabled abominable snowman. She's hopeful of getting a thesis out of it or at least something academic to publish."

"Ah, yes, I seem to remember that you were something at the university."

"Still am... something. What I really need is some evidence that is scientifically credible."

"That's why you are here... the both of you guys?"

"Not entirely," Graham said.

"So, I'm right... you're after that crashed Nazi plane."

"You read my piece in the Custodian?"

"We did... in fact, it was that piece of speculation that kept us here."

"So, what's kept you in the city? I thought you might have set forth for the mountain pass by now."

"All the preparations are made... we got us one of your British Land Rovers, a bunch of survival gear... it took us a while to get organised, but we figured the plane's been out there waiting near on fifteen years."

"We were thinking of hiring a couple of Sherpa's," Ed added.

"Have you managed to pinpoint the exact location of the crash site?" Graham asked.

"Well, that's the other thing that's been holding us back a little... all we have is the information we squeezed out of Jack and Ernest, which frankly wasn't much... that and your article which was deliberately vague on the matter."

"Mm... actually, those of us interested in finding this Junkers have to consider the weather, we currently have a window of opportunity, but it's no more than a couple of months. By November the winter temperatures will dramatically close things down. It can get very cold very quickly up in the foothills and the aircraft will likely be buried by deeper snow and become quite invisible."

"That's a valid point... one that's been at the back of our mind, if the plane's under a couple of feet of snow we would never find it."

"Well, it's been found once, so as long as we don't leave it too late in the season, I think there's still a chance of success. I did some research when I was back in London. I've a reasonable idea where the Junkers might be lying. A lot of it is guess work, but I've managed to cross reference the most likely position according to an assumed flight path with what Earnest and Jack told me. It will still need some searching for, but they gave me a reasonable description of the river valley that sits below, where Jack was left... if we can find that location, then we will just need to search in expanding circles until we find it."

"Look Graham, I guess we pretty much trust each other... what say we join forces on this? If there's a story in it, we'll publish in the US and you can publish your own piece in the Custodian."

"And if the Junkers is stuffed full of gold?"

"I'll arm wrestle you for it... no, seriously, I think the authorities would want to repatriate it to its rightful owners... there might be a reward though?"

"There might be... have you looked into the treasure trove laws out here?"

"Not exactly... what we thought was that we might help ourselves to a couple of trinkets, just to cover our expenses, and report the find to the local cops."

"And no one would be any the wiser?"

"Well, I guess not... what had you planned to do, if you found it?"

"I'm just interested in one piece that was looted from the monastery, I'd like to take it back there if we find it."

"What is it?"

"A golden Buddha statue... very old and very precious to its rightful owners."

"OK... look, we don't want to be treading on any toes here... we never expected to make a huge fortune out of this."

"Just a small fortune..." Graham suggested.

Mike simply smiled.

"I can't hold the moral high ground on this Mike... I've told you our interest. What you choose to do is up to you."

"So, you are happy to join forces?"

"I don't see why not... might have to run the shared publishing past my editor first."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," Ed said.

"Maybe Ed, but I can't commit to anything just at the moment, in principle. I'm amenable to the suggestion. I will definitely get back to you in a couple of days."

"That's all I need to hear... you intending on bringing Loretta along on this expedition?"

"That's why I'm here," Loretta said. "But, it will be Graham's decision if we decide to join up with you or not."

"What's your own view on the matter little lady?"

"I think it makes sense, I'd feel safer with four of us in the party."

"See Graham, Loretta's convinced."

"Give me a couple of days Mike... but, let's say I'm ninety percent on board."

"That's great buddy..."

"I hope you don't think this is going to be a walk in the park Ed. This will not be easy... but, if you are really serious, then it could save us both some time if we joined up."

After Graham and Loretta left the Nepal Hotel they strolled together along the streets. It was two thirty and Aadarsh had promised to meet them to take them home at four. With time on their hands they played at being tourists for an hour and then sat at an outside table to take refreshments at a small tea shop. They selected a table under the dappled green shade and swelling pods of a mimosa tree.

It was Isolde who noticed them first, she still saw Graham Peters as a potential threat.

"Richard... Richard."

She pulled him and Harry into the shadows cast by a spreading jacaranda.

"This might be your chance Richard... I don't want to be seen, he'll recognise me instantly, but you and Harry could wander down and see if your presence provokes any response."

Richard watched as the couple snatched a kiss, Loretta resting her head on Graham's shoulder until the tea arrived.

"I think you are overreacting, there's no way your tame journalist would be able to recognise me... I've never seen the man and I'm certain that he's never seen me."

"He is a man with a lot of tenacity," Isolde insisted, "some of the research he requested had direct and explicit reference to you, he won't have forgotten that."

Richard nodded, he came to the realisation that Isolde's concern may not be totally without foundation. He turned towards Harry.

"What do you think, Fielding?"

"You expect me to take the vague suspicions of a spinster librarian seriously... an Englishwoman?"

Harry Fielding was normally a man who seemed detached and self-contained, but there was venom in his words, which spoke of a festering anger that had nothing to do with the present situation.

"How dare you speak to me like that? Richard, put him in his place..."

"What do you mean by this Fielding?" Richard asked.

Fielding remained silent, but his eyes held Isolde's with a look that sent a shiver down her spine.

"This is because I took care of that whore Gabriela, isn't it...? Once Richard had cast her aside, you wanted her for yourself."

"Is this true Fielding?"

"Miss Mosley has clearly lost her mind," Harry said.

"How dare you?" Isolde spat.

"Fielding... I expect you to show Isolde the same respect that you give to me... is that understood?"

Fielding was a proud man, he detested having to withdraw his position, especially when it was one in which he deeply believed. He did not speak, but it was clear that the anger was still bubbling inside him.

"I need you to answer Fielding, or you and I are going to have a falling out... apologise to Miss Mosley at once."

Fielding stood up straight, you could see the blood pumping in his neck.

"I withdraw my statement, I'm sorry," he said.

"Very well, the matter is closed," Richard said. "Isolde?"

"Yes... I accept your apology Fielding."

There was the faint but noticeable trace of smugness in her expression. Fielding turned his eyes away, if he were any less self-controlled, he might have spat in disgust onto the cobbled path.

"So, give me your view Fielding."

Harry looked up, he had managed to suppress his anger and spoke in a measured tone.

"It would be easy enough to dispose of the journalist, but unless the man is already suspicious of us we could just be kicking at a wasp nest."

"Provoking trouble where we have none at the moment... you might be right... there is one thing that might be worth considering though... this journalist seems to be well informed, maybe he knows something about the crash site that we don't. With your undoubted talent for persuasion Fielding, you might be able to loosen his tongue... along with a few finger nails."

"It's a while since I've been involved in interrogation."

"Your skills are legendary Unteroffizier Schiffer. You are a master craftsman."

"Thank you SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus."

Richard rested his finger across his lips.

"Be careful how you address me Harry, even here the walls may have ears."

He turned towards Isolde.

"I think it is probably better if you make your way back to the Candra Hotel and wait for us. Fielding and I will strike up a casual encounter with the two love birds, see what reaction we get."

"I think its best Richard, he may be only a journalist, but he already knows a great deal about what happened at the monastery."

"Yes, yes... I'm already convinced Isolde, no need to press your case."

Isolde nodded and slipped away, she had more to say on the matter but thought it better not to engage in any further provocation. She walked back up the hill keeping to the shadows. Richard and Harry took a table next to the one occupied by Graham and Loretta. They ordered tea and Richard lit a cigar.

"How are you finding Nepal?" he asked, as Loretta turned to him with a smile. "You find it to your taste young lady?"

"It's an intriguing country."

Richard nodded drawing from his cigar.

"Yes... I take it you are from back home?"

"That rather depends on where you consider home to be," Loretta said.

"Well England of course... London," Richard clarified.

"In that case, yes... are you tourists or here on business?" she asked.

"A touch of both."

Richard brushed a speck of dust from his lapel.

"Filthy country," he said as if to himself before turning his eyes to Graham.

He half stood, half leaned as if the effort was hardly worthwhile.

"We should introduce ourselves," he said "I am Richard Smythe, and this is my employee Harry Fielding."

Rather unconvincing handshakes were exchanged, Graham especially found Richard's handshake to possess all the convincing warmth of a day-old Billingsgate eel. He managed to resist the temptation to wipe his palm.

"So, what do you do in London?" Harry asked Graham.

"Well actually, I'm a journalist... I was here to cover the ascent of Everest."

"Ah... that was a while ago... has something delayed your return?"

Almost immediately Graham noticed the accent and knew that Harry Fielding was no native born Englishman.

"Not really, Loretta and I decided to take an extended holiday. How is London these days... is the new underground link to King's Cross open yet... I think it was due to open last month."

"Ah, yes... that is quite right, it took a confounded time to complete... but you can expect little more from the rabble that passes as a workforce these days," Richard said. "No doubt, it will save time getting across the city... in fact, my home town is Oxford... I don't get into town that often these days."

"Ah, so you will know the Radcliffe Camera?"

"Indeed so," Richard said.

"What's your line of work Mr Smythe?" Loretta asked.

"Commodity trading..." Richard said rather vaguely.

"And in Nepal?"

"Much as yourselves... a little break, a little sightseeing, a little business if the opportunity arises."

Graham made a show of checking his watch...

"Is that the time... we really must be going. It was nice to meet you gentlemen."

He stood and could not quite resist directed something in German towards Harry Fielding. It was an innocuous sentence: Enjoy your holiday.

"Genießen Sie Ihren Urlaub."

Harry's eyes lifted, he was clearly on the point of responding, but something held him back. He locked eyes with Graham and an unspoken, potentially fatal, understanding passed between them.

Taking Loretta's arm, Graham paced away down the slope towards the temple. He turned back and saw that the German and his employer had also left, their tea untouched, the men vanished into the afternoon leaving nothing behind but a curl of cigar smoke...

"What on earth was that?" Loretta asked.

"I suppose you noticed his accent?"

"Yes, German was it...? What did you say to him Graham? Whatever it was made him turn quite pale."

"It's not what I said, it's that it was in German and it was clear that he understood..."

"But, he chose not to reply."

"Well, the look he gave me was a reply of a sort... I get the distinct impression that Mr Fielding is a rather dangerous man."

"You don't think that they are after the same thing as us, do you?"

"With the German connection it would hardly surprise me... there must be plenty of German soldiers who knew the value of what was in the hold of that Junkers 52 and since my article, I have rather let the cat out of the bag."

"This might be stretching things a little Graham, but you don't think he could be connected with the massacre at the monastery, do you? Might he be the man, what was his name?... The one that the strange child in the monastery named."

"Avrina was the child's name and, what did she call him – the black devil... his name was Kraus... I'm going to send off a telegram with a description of the two men, see if young Lydia can unearth anything."

"It makes you wonder if Fielding might be more than Smythe's employee."

"The other way around perhaps?"

"It could be a convenient cover, if they have anything to hide."

"Oh, I think they have something to hide Loretta..."

"Mm... you noticed the Smythe chap's scar?"

"Yes, indeed I did. There was also an arrogance about him that I didn't much care for."

"No, I got the same feeling, as if he wouldn't think twice about walking all over you if you got in his way."

"Astute as ever, dear heart."

"And what was that about the new King's Cross underground link? There's no such thing."

"I know, but it seems that Mr Smythe is quite convinced of its completion."

Lydia took Graham's arm.

"Sometimes I think you might be too clever for your own good... by saying those few words in German, and if we are right to be suspicious of them..."

"I know, I know... I've rather shown my own hand."

"I think you have rather... I hope you are wrong about the German being dangerous."

"Me too dear heart... me too."
Chapter Twenty-three

Isolde found herself a quiet corner in the lounge of the Candra Hotel. She had ordered tea, but after the first taste that made her shudder she had left it until it had become cold and even less palatable. It had been over two hours since she had left Richard to make his encounter with the journalist. The fact that he was not back yet was not really of concern to her. She had too much confidence in Richard's capability to imagine that his safety might have be compromised, but she felt the sting of irritation for being left alone so long in the dreary hotel.

Isolde had folded herself into a mound of cushions and occupying the entirety of a small sofa, she was, between thoughts of Richard, attempting to read a novel set in the period a little before the two world wars. It was a time, by her estimation, when everything seemed so much more civilised. The book was old, the pages carrying a musty scent from years spent unopened on a damp bookshelf.

"Isolde... there you are."

She looked up from the blotchy yellowing pages with a frisson of pleasure and saw Richard standing before her. She pulled off a pair of completely circular, small wire-framed reading spectacles and lay them on the arm of the sofa. Disappointingly, Harry was at his shoulder, attached according to Isolde's malign opinion, like an unwanted appendage. She had a desire to excise the appendage... the sooner, the better.

"What is it Richard?" she said.

"No, everything is fine... we, quite fortunately, happened across a group of Sherpas as we were making our way back to the Candra, we rather got held up with our negotiations."

"You managed to employ them?"

"Eventually... there were only three who had anything remotely like good English, unfortunately they had already been hired."

"Oh?"

"Never fear, we managed to persuade them to accept our coin instead."

"How did you do that?"

"By the simple expedient of offering to double their wages."

He spoke with humour from the understanding that it was quite likely that he would not trouble to pay them anything at all once they were of no further use.

"That speaks volumes for their loyalty," Isolde said.

The words, once spoken, sounded to her like a criticism of Richard's competence... not something she intended.

"They will be loyal to me... Fielding will ensure that."

Isolde glanced across towards Harry, her contempt for him was growing daily, but she chose not to put her thoughts into words... not at that precise moment.

"What about, Peters?" She asked as she closed her book and lay it next to her fragile spectacles.

"He represents nothing we can't deal with, but it seems you were right... we may have a minor problem with that damn man."

"What happened?"

"He must have noticed Harry's accent... he clearly came to the conclusion that he is German."

"I might have known you would be our downfall Fielding."

She looked directly at Harry, seeing quite mistakenly, a man she assumed to have been put firmly in his place.

"You must take measures to silence him Richard... he can't be allowed to roam the streets if he knows who you really are."

"There is absolutely no need to panic Isolde, he will be taken care of. He knows Harry is German, but that is a long way from knowing who I am. I believe he was quite convinced that I am a fellow Englishman. I don't feel it is an urgent matter... something for tomorrow, a loose end to tidy up before we set off."

"I wish I had your confidence."

"Many do..." Richard said with an arrogant smile.

"So, Richard, all the preparations are in place now that you have hired these Sherpas?"

"Yes, I can see no reason to delay our departure, quite the reverse in fact. We have all the necessary equipment stored on the Beechcraft. Our course has been plotted, the aircraft fuelled... I only wish we had taken the opportunity to improve our fitness, I suspect we may find the conditions testing. Perhaps it would do us no harm to take a little exercise tomorrow morning and loosen up our muscles in preparation for our expedition."

"Must we?" Isolde said. "Don't you think we might have left it rather late to start on a physical training regime?"

"You can be quite negative at times Isolde... exercise... that's the chap."

He turned to Harry:

"Fielding, we'll set off tomorrow at seven sharp, for a hike up to the hills... we should be back by lunch time, which will give us the rest of the day before we set off the following morning to finally recover my gold."

"And must I come on this hike?" Isolde said.

"Do you wish to accompany us on our expedition?"

"Of course I do Richard."

"Then you must make an effort."

"Of course, I'm sorry...I will submit to your wishes."

Isolde found there to be something deliciously arousing in an act of submission to such a powerful man. Richard bent down and cradled Isolde's cheek in his hand.

"All I ask is your obedience and I will give you the world..."

His lips moved to her mouth and he kissed her, his teeth pinching against the flesh of her lower lip until her panting became rapid and shallow. He turned and walked to his room. Harry stood there for a moment, a look of disgust on his face as he looked down on the flushed Englishwoman.

"Run along little man... you have no comprehension of real passion," Isolde said.

Harry bent close to her, his breath hot on her neck; he spoke in a whisper, but the words were clear enough:

"You will pay for what you did to Gabriela."

Richard made his way along the corridor to his room. He unlocked the door and threw his hat onto the bed. The room felt cool and he stood for a moment in silence, contemplating his future which he saw now as nothing more than an inevitable consequence of his past. His whole life had drawn him inexorably to this point. A dissonant part of his mind screamed with the knowledge that the entire universe revolved around his rightful ownership of the gold and therefore, his inevitable success in recovering it. The scream was hard to tolerate, coming from the blackness, but the moment soon passed, leaving him agitated but elated.

After his foray into the Kathmandu streets, he felt the need to wash and propping his walking cane in the corner, took off his jacket. Once refreshed and dressed in a clean shirt, he took down his large hatbox, the leather Luis DeMargue hand stitched case with his initials embossed in gold: RSS – Richard Siegfried Smythe. There might have been a slight tremble to his fingers as he slid open the clasps and lifted the lid. There was just a single item cosseted within the watered silk lining.

He drew out the item encased in a generous fold of burgundy velvet and lay it on the table beside him.

"I will soon be rid of you and your damned curse," he said as he lifted the Buddha into a yellow pool of sunlight.

As his skin touched the gold, he could feel a snap of pain, as if the gold were charged with electricity or had been flamed searing hot, hot enough to burn into his soul... _Just his imagination_ he thought, but as he dropped the sacred object back onto the table and withdrew his hands, he saw two angry blisters rise on each of his thumbs and index fingers.

"Damn you to hell..." he snarled.

The Buddha simply continued smiling serenely in its halo of sunlight.

The overnight rain had brought a freshness to the hills and left the vegetation glistening in the thin morning sun. There was open land to their left, rising gently and undistinguished with dense shrubs and not a house or hovel in sight, to the other side stood a deep line of dark brooding trees bordering the rocky path. The branches were lush and thick with leaves, so darkly green that they seemed almost black. The breeze lifting up from the valley caught the branches and they swayed in drooping wet masses to a fundamental rhythm of nature. Lower down, the city stood in a haze of thin autumn mist. In an hour it would burn off and allow the warmth of the sun to energise the rush of people as they went about their daily routines.

It was a matter of her pride; she would not have some half educated German oaf threaten her without feeling the constant sting of her wrath.

"I was thinking of Gabriela as we walked up into the hills this morning," she said.

They had taken advantage of a fallen tree stump to sit and recover their breath after a somewhat arduous uphill section. The moss on which she rested felt uncomfortably damp through the tweed of her skirt, but the air was fresh and sweet, and she felt happy to be here at Richard's side. Isolde could not help noticing, with a little smugness, that she seemed hardly less fit than Richard despite her habitual lack of exercise.

"What...?" Richard asked.

He had seemed distracted all morning and, to her distress, had not come to her room the previous night as she had achingly allowed herself to anticipate.

"Gabriela... I was just thinking how unsuited she was for you. You deserved far better than a slut like her."

Her words were spoken to Richard but meant as an irritant for another, a fact that did not escape Harry's attention.

"Quite so..." Richard replied.

He seemed to be deeply engaged in examining the tips of his fingers, but there was nothing to be seen, as far as Isolde could tell.

"We should be getting back," Richard said.

He stood, and still caught in a world of his own discordant thoughts, ambled towards the left fork of the path that led down to the city. Harry Fielding turned towards Isolde.

"You should drop your little game before you go too far," he said with a snarl.

Isolde looked at him in astonishment. _Was the little man still continuing to talk back after Richard had forced him into submission?_

She scrutinised his face, but it was as if she were looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope, his image was clearly visible, but her view fatally lacked the subtlety of perspective that might tell her something of the true character of the man she was deliberately confronting. Harry was no simpleton, no moronic follower of orders, but a man of infinite complexity, now driven beyond his limit by this vexatious English... librarian.

"You, are a vile woman... Gabriela was worth ten of you... you know what I think, Miss Mosley? I think you were driven to murder that innocent child out of nothing more than base envy of her beauty. I give you notice... I will take no more of your snide remarks."

"Really...? What do you intend doing? You really expect me to be concerned by your pathetic threats?"

"The last man I threatened died by my own hands, and he was an honourable and courageous British officer... I took no pleasure in doing my duty on that day. Those sentiments will not apply in your case."

Isolde burst out laughing...

"Richard, did you hear that...?"

She was pretending to maintain her composure but on realising that Richard had walked out of earshot, her voice suddenly took on a different timbre, a strain of vocal cords that indicated her approach to the edge of panic.

"Richard... Richard, where are you?" her voice rose an octave. "Richard..."

She turned back to Harry.

"Get away from me you oaf... yes, I murdered your whore, not for her so-called beauty, but because she had given up any right to live after betraying the most magnificent man in the world."

Gabriela had never betrayed Richard, but Harry was now well past the point of arguing semantics or points of fact with Isolde. He narrowed his eyes, his expression had moved beyond menace to one that made Isolde gasp. He took a step closer and taking her throat in his right hand, he squeezed tight feeling her flabby tissues collapse under the considerable power of his grip. Isolde tried to speak, to call for Richard's help, but there was just a rasp of spent air as it gurgled from her windpipe. Her face bulged red and blotchy, her eyes now pleading, but all she saw from Harry was the detachment of a trained and experienced killer, with a single objective in mind. He lifted her contemptuously, still with just one hand, until she was on tip toe. His grip tightened forcing a little airless whimper from her bluing lips. The flow of blood to her brain was constricted and a halo of shimmering blackness filled her vision.

Silently, like a forest wraith, Richard emerged from the shrubbery and stood behind them. He did not speak; the events had already gone too far for words. Richard understood Fielding too well, like a bull dog committed to a fight to the death, only one thing would halt him now. Pulling at his cane, he separated the polished ivory handle from the hollow shaft and drew out a razor sharp thin blade. Its slender tooled steel shone silvery blue in the morning light. Choosing the exact position with ultimate care, he thrust the weapon deeply into Harry's back, in a controlled act of precision violence... as intended, the steel sliced through the muscle of Harry's torso and penetrated his left ventricle before glancing off the hardness of ribcage bone and emerging through the front of his chest.

Harry looked down at the spike of metal and the flow of scarlet blood with astonishment. Richard spoke his name, but as Harry turned his eyes back to the voice, it was clear that the man was no longer Harry Fielding, he was no longer anyone. He seemed to have had something to say... something important, perhaps an, I told you so, but even that last conscious thought had evaporated into nothingness. He fell forward dragging Isolde down with him until he lay unmoving on top of her, his weight crushing and claustrophobic.

"Get him off me!" she screamed over and over hysterically, "Get him off me!"

Richard, the hardened SS officer, reeled back... the sudden acknowledgement that Harry had been the closest thing to a friend he had ever really known, struck him like a blow. Harry had been his constant companion through the turbulence of the war, and then his faithful servant during the years in South America. He was his only tangible link to the dear Fatherland. In that moment of realisation, another supporting pillar of his reason crumbled away, drawing him closer to an edge, over which he dares not peer.

Pale and shaking, he withdrew the blade and pulled the corpse from Isolde's squirming body. It was too late for regret now, he had been forced to choose between the only two people left alive for whom he cared. He had chosen Isolde, and there could be no going back. He wiped the blade clean of the sticky blood on a flap of Fielding's shirt and then pulled him unceremoniously deep into the dense shrubbery, where the remains would go unnoticed for many days. Not, Richard hoped, until they had left Nepal.

Richard lay the man on his back and tried to close his lids, but Harry's eyes continued to stare up asking questions that could not be answered. Richard shivered, not from any sense of cold, but as if something had slithered through him, irresistible and silent. He felt there should be some words... but none came. Instead, he stood to attention and saluted his fallen comrade. After what seemed like a respectful time he covered the remains with vegetation and turned back to the path. Isolde was on the damp floor leaning against the tree stump with her legs drawn up to her chest. Richard looked at her with a mix of anger, regret and desire. The strongest of which was still desire. It was desire, not love. He knew full well that she had been antagonising Harry, that she was the architect of her own misfortune, but by god he wanted her compliant body like no other. Ultimately, Harry Fielding's life had been sacrificed on the altar of lust. Richard understood that, and it was no comfort to him.

In the confusion of thoughts that swirled in Richards mind, one thing shone brightly, a clearly focussed understanding: The tragedy that had just unfolded was not Isolde's fault, it was not Fielding's fault... it was another revenge brought down on him from the infernal Sang Khor Buddha. He looked towards Isolde and held out his arms.

"Come here," he said.

Isolde could see the edge of madness now and hesitated.

"Come, dear Isolde."

And she did, she simply had no choice. Richard took her in his arms.

"Nothing has changed," he said. "Tomorrow we will still set off in the Beechcraft for the foothills and together we will recover my Himal Gold, and I will become rich beyond all imagining."

And Isolde believed every word... she simply had no choice.

Aadarsh had dropped them off in the city before embarking on business that would keep him away from home for several days. Both Graham and Loretta were dressed casually, Loretta in her ex-army trousers and jumper in which she now felt completely comfortable. The mission was to visit the post office and see if there was any reply to Graham's earlier telegram.

When Graham read the reply, it was clear that Lydia had burned a considerable quantity of midnight oil to come up with a response so quickly. It was all in the scar, the little pale curve of flesh that was so distinctive, so typical of the man's vanity. A vanity, which had driven him from as far back as his childhood.

MX3UK OR20 LONDON UNITED KINGDOM

THE CUSTODIAN

BAMBRIDGE AGREES TO EXPEDITION -(STOP)- KEEP EXPENSES DOWN DAMN YOU -(STOP)- SMYTHE SCAR AND DESCRIPTION IDENTICAL TO THAT OF KRAUS -(STOP)- KRAUS NOW WANTED BY BRITISH AND AMERICANS FOR WAR CRIMES -(STOP)- THOUGHT POSSIBLY TO BE CURRENTLY IN ARGENTINA -(STOP)- NOTHING FOUND ON FIELDING -(STOP)-

LYDIA PP EDITOR BAMBRIDGE 9.06 PM THURSDAY

Graham held the telegram tight in his fingers, he read it through twice ensuring that had missed nothing.

"Well, well, well."

"What is it Graham, did she find anything?" Loretta asked.

"Seems our instincts were almost right..."

"How do you mean almost?"

"We just picked the wrong man... it seems that the _black devil Kraus_ has a scar on his cheek, identical to the one on our Mr Smythe. The authorities think he may have absconded to Argentina... not such an unusual destination for the fleeing Nazi elite... the ones who could afford to buy their sanctuary."

"He's a long way from Argentina now."

"Yes, he is, I wonder what it might be that he finds so attractive in Nepal?"

"I can't imagine... anything about the Fielding character?"

"No, but he's probably an associate from the war."

"So, where to from here?"

"We should alert the authorities... our best course will probably be to let the British Embassy know what we have discovered. I expect they will be able to organise his arrest."

"We could go straight there Graham... the sooner those two are off the streets, the better."

"Mm... if my memory serves me, I believe the Embassy is somewhere on Kapurdhara Marg, I think it's within reasonable walking distance... if we cut down this alley it should bring us out by the Candra Hotel, I'm sure we'll be able to get accurate directions there."

"Then, let's go."

The alley was in shadow from the surrounding buildings and a cool wind seemed to be tunnelling through it, whipping up the dust and debris and blowing at Loretta's loosely knotted silk scarf. It was something of a relief when they tumbled out into the sunshine once more. In the distance, looming tall and imposing, they could see the Candra Hotel and they quickened their pace towards it. But caught by something that had grabbed his interest, Graham took Loretta's arm and pulled her to a sudden stop.

"My god, I don't believe it..." he said.

"What?" she followed Graham's eyes. "Is that him Smythe, Kraus? Whatever we're calling the man?"

"Yes, it is, but you see the woman with him?"

"You mean the middle-aged woman in the tweed skirt?"

"I'm sure that she's Miss Mosley from the Marlborough library... you remember me telling you about her?"

"It can't be darling, that makes no sense at all..."

"I'm pretty certain it's her... she looks a little less dowdy, rejuvenated somehow, but I'm sure it's her... Loretta, maybe, just maybe, finding her here makes rather a lot of sense."
Chapter Twenty-four

For Isolde, the walk back from the hills seemed to have passed in a trance, she could hardly remember any of it, yet, here she was almost back at the elegant entrance to the Candra Hotel.

"What happened this morning Richard?" Isolde asked.

She knew the details all too well, but she was searching for some reassurance, an explanation. Instinctively Richard understood this.

"Try to put it from your mind," he said. "For me, it's already a thing of the past, we must look to the future. It will be a glorious future for us, Isolde."

She nodded, but in the certain knowledge that it would take her many days, and nights, before the morning's events could be viewed with anything remotely approaching detachment.

A movement, a flicker of light, drew her eyes towards the dark entrance to the alley. It was maybe twenty yards from them, close enough for her to see and recognise the familiar stance of Peters and his girl.

"Richard... it's them..." she said quietly as she pulled at his sleeve.

Richard turned to see.

"So, they have come looking for us, have they? Sooner than I was expecting... no matter, it will save me a search."

Looking across the street, he called out to them in a display of arrogant confidence.

"Are you looking for me?"

Loretta grabbed Graham's hand.

"Be careful darling, he's a dangerous man."

"He can't afford to do anything in the open."

"I'm not so sure... don't do anything to provoke him."

But, that is exactly what Graham did. Lulled into some false sense of security by the couple's ordinary appearance, he called out.

"Herr Kraus... we meet again."

Any sense of normality was shattered by Graham's use of the man's real name. Richard, however, appeared unmoved.

"Why don't you join me for a drink...?" he asked. "Maybe I will be able to clarify your confusion."

He held out his arm indicating the entrance to the hotel.

"I'm staying here... do come."

Loretta pulled herself close to Graham.

"Don't trust him, the man is a killer, a mass murderer."

"He is, I understand that, but don't you find him fascinating? I find it astounding that a man like him can appear, so normal."

"I just find him deeply troubling... come on, let's go straight to the Embassy, this is far too big for us to deal with."

Graham knew that Loretta was right, but he wanted to confirm the identity of the woman who stood nervously at Kraus's side.

"Nice to see you again, Miss Mosley," he called.

"Good morning Mr Peters... we should talk, but not across the street, like some East End fish wives."

She beckoned with her arm for him to come closer.

Graham turned to Loretta, he drew her back into the shadows of the alley, a trickle of water ran down the alley's gutter, disappearing into the grating of a drain.

"You go on to the Embassy Loretta... I'll just have a few words and follow on."

"This is your _nose for a story_ talking. It is simply not worth it darling."

"An exclusive interview with one of the most notorious war criminals of all time?"

"Even so... this is insanity Graham, who knows what he might do? You are a threat to his liberty, he can't ignore that... if you intend walking into the lion's den, then I'm sticking to you like glue."

"All right, you win... we'll make our way to the Embassy... there still might be a decent story in it after the authorities have him in custody."

A sudden flurry of startled birds caused Graham to turn his head back to the unlikely couple, a Nazi criminal wanted by half of the world's police forces, and a middle-class English librarian who one might imagine to be as innocent as the driven snow. But the startled birds had been a warning... all he saw was a flash of something catching the light, as it crossed his peripheral vision. The glimpse of the moving object was followed instantly by a searing pain across the bridge of his nose.

Kraus and Isolde had wasted no time, and as soon as their quarry had turned back to the alley, they had dashed across the street. Kraus wielded his cane like a bludgeon, bringing it down onto Graham's face. The blow broke Graham's nose and he fell backwards, cracking his head on the cobbled stone pathway.

"Grab the girl!" Richard called out to Isolde. "Keep her quiet while I finish him."

He pulled out the blade with murderous intent, for the second time that morning. Loretta struggled and kicked violently as Isolde grabbed her arms.

"I can't hold her Richard!" she called.

Richard turned back from Graham's unconscious body and with a swing of his arm struck Loretta across the back of her neck. The blow was severe enough for Loretta's legs to buckle. Isolde was unable to support her weight, and they sank to the floor together. Richard lifted the young woman, his arm round her, supporting her weight under her arm.

"Help me Isolde, we'll take her to Fielding's room until we can decide on her fate. Pick up my cane will you?"

"Yes, yes, of course... what about Peters?"

"I'll be back to finish him straight away."

Richard was still a powerful man, and he was able to cross the short distance to the hotel while disguising the fact that the woman he held was barely conscious.

Once inside, Isolde asked for their room keys. The receptionist, a young Indian woman, soon located them.

"Mr Fielding has been called away on urgent business... his daughter is feeling a little unwell. Will it be all right if she takes his room?"

"Oh, his daughter... yes, of course... allow me to open the door for you Mrs Smythe."

"That will not be necessary, we can manage."

She held out her hand for the keys, which was handed over politely without question.

"If there is anything we can do for the young woman..." the receptionist said.

"You are most kind, but that will not be necessary, she is subject to these fainting fits."

By the time they were in Fielding's room on the third floor, Loretta was starting to recover.

"You had better gag her," Richard said.

Isolde stuffed a handkerchief into Loretta's mouth and bound it in place with a hastily removed nylon stocking.

"Lock the door... I'll go back and deal with Peters... I'll try to make it look like a bungled robbery."

"Make sure no one sees you Richard...and please, hurry back."

Graham was at the dentist... he knew that, but little else made sense to him. For some reason, the anaesthetic was not working. He wanted to call out to Chris Ward, his dentist, but was quite unable to move. The pain of the drilling seemed to radiate out from his jaw, up to his nose, until his whole head was throbbing. He forced open his eyes onto a blurry world, and when he could make sense of the image from his bloodshot eyes, he saw not the familiar drab green of his dentist's room, with the drooping potted palm and the bright posters admonishing you to brush after every meal. In its place, he found the dingy walls of a dank moss-grown alley. His back was wet from some foetid water in which he was laying, and his head was pounding. The constant shrill buzzing was not the dentist's drill, but some internal sound generated by his concussed brain.

He remembered that someone should be with him, but who? Slowly, this swirling thought coalesced into a memory, and he drew himself up onto his knees. There was one thought that seemed to repeat itself with each thump of his head. It was urgent... _Get to the British Embassy_ thump... _Get to the British Embassy_ thump. His head felt heavy, swollen to the size of a beach ball. As he lifted his head higher, he could see the road cast in sunlight at the end of the alley. With effort he stood... _Where was Lydia?... no, not Lydia... what was her name?_ He could see her face, her delicate sweet features.

Graham staggered out into the sunlight, there was blood streaming from his nose, tears streaming from his eyes. With blurred vision he walked out into the road. There was just the single compelling thought that could be salvaged from the fog of his mind. _Get to the Embassy..._ but, which way? Then, suddenly and violently he needed to vomit... he leaned over double as his stomach convulsed, hurling his sour smelling breakfast onto the road. A wandering dog stopped and sniffed the air, its eyes glaring at the retching figure. There was a sound like the blare of trumpets, a screech. Graham saw the truck as if in slow motion, it was bearing down on him, its brakes locked, the tyres shrieking. Graham watched unable to move, but in the distance, moving towards him, he saw a man that he knew... _something evil this way comes_ his fractured mind told him.

It was his last thought before everything turned black. A precious peaceful black... no pain, no urgency, no dentist's drill... just the joyous silent escape of oblivion.

"He was hit by a truck." Richard said.

"A truck?... is he dead?"

"It's the most likely outcome... I saw the whole thing, it was a vegetable truck... knocked him ten yards down the street. I had just left the hotel. I think he caught sight of me just before the impact... a crowd gathered round his body... I couldn't get close, not without rousing suspicion."

"I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry," Isolde said. "What an appalling day this has been."

"I need you to be strong, Isolde... I think we can assume that Peters will be no further trouble, but we still have to deal with the girl... people have seen us with her, we'll have to keep her quiet until morning."

"What then?"

"We'll take her on the plane with us, we can dispose of her out in the wilds of the mountains, where she will never be found... maybe we might even drop her from ten thousand feet."

Isolde remembered an inane chant that had been a feature of her early school days... something about a spoon of raspberry jam... _she ain't going to jump no more_...

Isolde shuddered at the mental image, as she looked into Richards face she knew whatever he decided would be the right thing. He possessed her body and soul, and she knew that nothing he might do to reach his goal could be wrong. This was a world, she was certain, where the meek inherit nothing, the spoils go to those magnificent men who have the courage to take them. Even... even if he was insane.

"Can you deal with the girl, until tomorrow morning?" Richard asked.

"Yes... I have some sleeping pills..."

"We need to keep her alive so that the hotel staff see her leaving when we check out."

"Of course, just enough to keep her drowsy and compliant."

"I imagine the staff will expect her to take dinner, maybe you could arrange for some food to be taken to her room. I'm not concerned if she eats anything, but we need to keep up the appearance of normality."

"It's just these details that I would flounder over Richard, how do you manage to keep so calm in the face of everything?"

"You have known me a long time Isolde, you must have seen all those years ago that I was born to fulfil a great destiny."

He spoke with no trace of irony, drawing Isolde deeper, willingly into the bizarre world which his fractured mind had constructed.

Isolde moved to where Loretta had been placed.

"We have your friend Peters in another room. Unless you cooperate fully, we kill him. Do you understand?"

Loretta nodded, the gag prevented her from speaking, but the panicked look in her eyes spoke volumes.

"I will remove the handkerchief, but if you raise your voice, it will be replaced. Each time you fail to follow my instructions, Peters will lose a finger, do you understand?"

Loretta nodded, her eyes wide in horror.

"It will be brought to you as evidence of your lack of concern for your lover."

She tried to say _No, No_ , but all that came out was a stifled mumble. Isolde noted the panic with satisfaction. She untied the stocking and removed the gag. Loretta's hands were tied together behind her back, and she was propped up in the corner of the room sitting on the floor.

"Please don't harm Graham, I'll do anything you ask... how is he?" Loretta said as soon as the gag was removed.

"He is perfectly well, but whether he continues to be so is entirely up to you... you understand?"

"Yes, yes... can I see him?"

"That is out of the question for the moment, but I will untie your hands, you are quite secure in this suite. I suggest you wash your face and tidy yourself. There is a bathroom beyond the far door. Rest assured that there is no way out through there.

"You are Miss Mosley from the Marlborough library?" Loretta said

"I used to be... you see my circumstances have changed."

"It was you who set those thugs on Graham?"

"If I had known then how much of a nuisance your Graham was going to become, I might have requested a more terminal outcome to the beating."

"How can you live with yourself?" Loretta said, her eyes flushing with tears.

"Be careful young lady, any further outbursts like that will put Peters at grave risk."

"I'm sorry... I'll do what you want, as long as Graham is safe."

"Then tell me your name."

"DeVerre... Loretta DeVerre."

"Very well, Miss DeVerre, I will leave you to tidy yourself up. I shall return in a few moments with a cup of tea... I'm sure you are in need of one."

Loretta nodded, her throat was dry from the gag and she was indeed desperate for a drink. She took off her scarf, it was undamaged despite the scuffle, but she needed it kept safe, a tangible link to Graham's love for her. She folded it carefully into a square and placed it in one of the buttoned pockets of her well-worn combat trousers. After confirming that there was no possible way to escape from the room, she made her way to the bathroom, drew warm water into the hand basin and washed her face with the perfumed toilet soap that the Candra provided. Her neck, where Richard had struck her, was still sore and she held a damp face cloth against it... it did not help.

Returning to the bedroom, she sat on the bed feeling that Graham might just be in the next room, if only she could see him. There was an enormous temptation to call out for him, but she knew that it might be fatal for Graham. She sank into a chair and felt the hollow churn of despair grip her. The scrabble of a key against the door made Loretta look up.

"Right, here's your tea..."

Isolde placed the cup and saucer on the table next to the young woman. It was clear to Isolde that Miss DeVerre's spirit was broken. With trembling hands Loretta lifted the cup and drank greedily.

"Better?" Isolde said.

"Thank you... what are you going to do with Graham and me?"

"I assume you understand why we are in Nepal."

"The crashed aircraft... the gold."

"Indeed. Richard is an expert pilot and tomorrow we are flying to the area... as Peters chose to push his nose into our affairs, we have decided to utilise his specific knowledge to help us locate the crash site."

"Has he agreed to help you?"

"Yes... his cooperation is what keeps you safe..."

Loretta nodded as she sipped some more sweet tea.

"I see... you have us both over a barrel."

"We do... however, if you both cooperate there is no reason why you can't return from the expedition and continue with your lives. That happy outcome will not be possible, however, if you choose to offer resistance."

Loretta had become suddenly sleepy.

"When will I be able to see Graham?" she asked, her voice already slightly slurred.

"Tomorrow we will take you to the aircraft, Peters will already be there waiting for you. Once we are away from Kathmandu, you will be allowed to associate with him... I suggest you get some sleep, your day has been exhausting. I will bring you something to eat this evening."

Loretta struggled to keep her eyes open, she needed to be alert for any opportunity that might arise, but she could not help closing them for just a few seconds...

The clock on the wall was registering 6:00 pm when she woke. It took her several seconds to remember where she was. They drugged my tea she thought as she got off the bed. She desperately needed help: there was Aadarsh, but he was away on a business venture of his own, not due back until tomorrow or the next day. But, there was also Mike and Ed... if she could get a message to them at the Nepal Hotel...

She searched for paper and a pen. Fortunately, the Candra had not overlooked this particular guest requirement. She hastily scribbled a note, placed it in an envelope and addressed it to Ed Stewart and Mike Dean care of the Nepal Hotel. All she needed now was a convenient post box.

Some hope she thought placing the folded envelope in a pocket and sitting down with a flop on the bed.

"Stupid girl... do keep up." Isolde called.

The kitchen maid carrying Loretta DeVerre's meal looked about eleven or twelve. Isolde thought it was a disgrace. Not that she was concerned for the child's welfare, per se, but the patrons of a supposedly superior hotel might expect the staff to be well trained and competent. The child didn't even seem to speak English.

"Here, here... stop here while I get my key," she snapped.

Isolde unlocked the door and waited for the child to enter.

"Go on, take the tray in," Isolde's said, her eyes lifting to the ceiling in exasperation.

Loretta saw the child struggling with her dinner tray and stood to help her. Isolde seemed to be standing guard by the door, and Loretta drew the child into the room and took the tray, placing it on the floor out of Isolde's sight. She crouched down in front of the girl and hastily retrieved the letter she had written.

"Do you speak English?" she whispered.

The girl returned a wide-eyed blank stare. Whether she understood Isolde's words or not, her berating had clearly frightened the child.

"Listen sweety, this is very important, please take this to the Nepal Hotel."

She pointed out the address on the envelope.

"The Nepal hotel," she whispered again.

The child still seemed not to understand, but Loretta placed the envelope into her hands and said "Please... the Nepal Hotel."

Then she rummaged through her pockets and found a few rupees...

"Take this..."

The child stuffed the letter and the money into her pocket, still without saying a word.

"Do hurry," Isolde snapped. "I'm standing here waiting like a fool."

She came into the room.

"There on the table... put the tray on the table, what sort of country is this where food is served on the floor? Now, come on child, I need to lock the door. "

She turned back to Loretta:

"Oh, by the way, as you have been cooperating, I have given you a small glass of sherry... it might help you sleep."

I'm sure it might Loretta thought.

"Enjoy your dinner... a little poached fish... I'll see you in the morning, it will be an early start, but you can look forward to being reunited with your companion."

Isolde turned back to the corridor and the child followed, at the door she turned her large dark eyes back to Loretta. Loretta smiled and nodded.

"Thank you," she whispered.

But, she had not the slightest indication whether the girl had understood a single word.
Chapter Twenty-five

Mike and Ed sat in the bar of the Nepal Hotel killing time. They were on their second beer, but the itch to set off on their expedition was in dire need of scratching.

"Will you gentlemen be dining here tonight?"

"No, thanks, we ate earlier..."

"Might I then interest you in a refill, we have some very nice malt whisky, personally imported by Mr Khadka our esteemed hotel owner."

They had not met the hotel's revered founder whose image was captured in sepia and hung large and lowering on the wall of the bar. But, they would certainly recognise him if he did ever appear.

"We'll call you if we need anything," Mike said.

"Very well, sirs, have a most excellent evening."

The assistant manager left with a small deferential bow.

"I thought we would have heard back from Peters by now," Ed said, rubbing at some minor irritant on his imperfectly shaved chin.

"I was just about to say the same thing... do you know where they are staying? It was with some local friend wasn't it?"

"Up in the hills, somewhere in the uncharted wilderness... I'm not sure we have the time to hang around if he can't make up his mind, the sooner we get going the better, as far as I'm concerned."

"Well, we're all set, you think we should just shoot off on our own then?"

"It might come to that; I guess it was our original plan... but to be honest, I'd rather have Peters along with us, he seems more clued up on the likely location than we are."

Mike drained his glass.

"You think it's worth driving out to the hills and trying to find him?"

"Seems like a long shot, but I guess we could try... not much else happening round here."

He scanned the room, there were just a handful of others in the bar, an elderly Indian man and his rather infirm bird-like wife, who seemed perched on the edge of extinction. Balanced rather precariously on a bar stool, was a rather over-dressed local woman of questionable profession sipping demurely at a lemonade.

"See the girl at the bar... you think...?"

"Oh yeah, she dropped me the cutest of smiles last night..."

"You old dog... so, what do you say, Ed... I think Peters said his buddy lived out towards the Bhaktapur district, half an hour from the city. There's not many houses up there, someone is sure to know where a couple of foreigners are staying."

"I wouldn't bet on it, but I guess it's worth a try."

Collecting their coats, they marched out of the hotel towards their waiting Land Rover. The vehicle looked to be weighed down with equipment, as if it was fully prepared for an assault on Everest. At the door they nearly collided with a young Nepalese girl, who was suddenly stopped by the unexpected appearance of the two Americans. She stood quite still by the entrance, looking up at them with a rather bewildered expression on her round face. She was clutching an envelope.

"Whoa there, little Missy..." Mike tipped her a wink but managed to refrain from tousling her hair.

The girl watched the two foreigners, tall and confident, as they strode out towards their car. She considered it to be an amazing contraption, piled with all manner of strange luggage. The child pushed open the door and made her way silently across the polished teak to the reception desk.

The man in charge of the reception desk, Mr Dahal, sat on his stool. His head hidden in his hands. He had the appearance of someone waiting for the end of the world... possibly the end of his shift would suffice. Finally, he sat upright with a sigh and noticed the child standing silent and unannounced.

"What do you want...? No beggars allowed." Dahal said to her in Nepali.

"I'm not a beggar... I have a message, sir."

She lifted her hand and revealed a rather crumpled and grubby envelope.

"A letter? Who is this for?"

He read the hand written words:

Ed Stewart and Mike Dean

c/o The Nepal Hotel

Urgent

"Very well child, you have done well."

He took a chocolate mint from under the counter, an imported luxury intended for their more important guests and handed it to the wide-eyed girl. She examined the cellophane wrapped chocolate as if it were a green jewel, she had certainly seen such things before at the Candra, but had never tasted one.

"Now be off..." he said with a laugh.

The child smiled, turned on her heel and ran out into the evening, satisfied that she had completed her mission. She clutched the chocolate in her small hand... she would give it to her mother; perhaps it would make her smile again, she thought.

Mr Dahal had just seen the two men leave the hotel and with an unconcerned shrug, he popped the envelope into a pigeon hole for Room 36 – Ed Stewart's room. He would have certainly remembered to pass it on to the men when they returned, but he was about to go off duty...

Loretta slept a few hours but was awake again by five. She had eaten most of the fish, but the suspect sherry had been consigned, almost regretfully, to the sink, to be swirled away in a gush of water. She washed and dressed, in the same set of clothes, and drank some tepid metallic water from the bathroom tap. Finally, with nothing else she could do, Loretta sat on one of the finely upholstered chairs, nervously waiting for her captors to appear. The anticipation of seeing Graham was an ever-present encouragement which kept her from quite breaking down into tears. Alone, she felt helpless, but with Graham at her side, she might have the strength to fight back if the opportunity arose.

It was six before she heard the sound of a key in her door, and Isolde slipped quietly into the room. She was dressed for the outdoors in hiking boots and a warm sweater over her tweed skirt. She smelled disconcertingly of lavender water.

"Good, I see you are up and ready."

Loretta did not speak.

"I hope you are going to continue to be cooperative, Miss DeVerre."

"When will I see Graham?"

"So far, he has been unharmed... I hope you will allow that state of affairs to continue."

"Yes, yes, of course."

Isolde eyed Loretta closely, dressed in her army surplus clothing, she looked like an escaped land-girl. Although, when Isolde had first seen her with Peters, she was dressed in a more feminine way. She had the look of a vacuous flibbertigibbet, the sort that you see running around after men in Leicester Square on a Friday night. Despite this, the young woman was well spoken, though that hardly counted for anything these days she thought. In Loretta's case, she was not so sure, the young woman was hard to read.

"What do you do in London?"

"I'm a graduate student."

Isolde raised her eyebrows, it was not the answer she was expecting.

"Oh... what field?"

"How is that in the slightest way relevant to our current situation?"

"Indulge me... I'm just rather curious."

"Anthropology."

"Indeed... I was up at Oxford... classics," she said, as if it stood at the apex of all worthwhile knowledge, the pinnacle of scholarly endeavour.

Loretta's blank stare put an end to the brief conversation.

"Very well, for your information, Peters has been taken on ahead. Richard needed to collect the Sherpa's... a car has been arranged to take us to the airfield."

Isolde consulted her watch.

"We have about half an hour... I'll bring you some tea... do you need breakfast?"

Not surprisingly Loretta had little appetite. She shrugged.

"Well, I'm not here to force feed you young lady... tea will have to suffice."

The Beechcraft stood on the grassy runway. It was painted in a rather garish yellow colour with red striping down the fuselage.

"I noticed that you did not drink the tea earlier... that is perhaps unfortunate. Richard believes it is better for you to be sedated."

"Why? I have been completely cooperative with you."

"You can take these voluntarily, or I will call Richard from the plane and they will be administered without your cooperation... it would be a mistake to annoy Richard."

She showed Loretta a bottle.

"They are simply sleeping pills completely harmless. I take them all the time."

"Where's Graham?"

"He's already on board."

"I will take your damned pills after I have seen him."

"It is not too late to start disfiguring Peters... is that what you want?"

Loretta shook her head, she knew that while they held Graham she was at their mercy.

"If you want me dead, why not just shoot me where I stand... I'm sure Herr Kraus has a gun."

"Of course, Richard has a gun, but killing you is not our intention. We need Peters' cooperation, your continued well-being guarantees that."

"Very well... it seems I have no choice."

She held out her hand and received three small white pills, somewhat in excess of the prescribed dose.

"Here..." Isolde held out a flask of water. "The effects will have worn off by the time we land, then you and Peters can finally be together again."

It was becoming increasingly evident to Loretta that the prospect of ever being with Graham again was slipping inevitably from her grasp. By the time she was bundled into her seat, the sleeping pills were already numbing her senses. She looked around the Spartan cabin and saw three Nepalese men, dressed heavily for the cold, but there was no sign of Graham.

"Where's Graham...?" she mumbled as she unsuccessfully fought to subdue the effects of the sedative. The men looked alarmed by her state.

"Please, what is wrong with the lady?" one of them asked.

Isolde appeared rather put out at having to explain herself to these hired natives.

"This is Loretta, she is my daughter and will be travelling with us. Unfortunately, she is rather afraid of flying, and the sedative she took appears to have disagreed with her."

Isolde managed a forced smile for the three men who then turned and spoke animatedly together in Nepali for a few moments. One of the three Sherpa's looked none too well himself, a little pale with a trace of sweat across his brow; he seemed to be in some discomfort. In fact, there had been some argument about the man's fitness to undertake the journey, but Richard had vigorously insisted on the man's presence on the expedition.

Loretta sank into her chair, her eyes closed against the world. Checking that the young woman was now sleeping, Isolde moved into the cockpit and sat next to Richard. As the engines churned into life he turned to face her.

"Well, here we are, everything has gone to plan so far... apart from a little excess baggage which we will soon dispose of."

He tapped at the dial of the compass.

"You're not really going to throw her from the aircraft, are you?"

Richard laughed... "I think that might be a concern for our Sherpa's... I'll engineer an accident at some stage."

"She'll be a problem when she realises that we do not have Peters."

"Isolde, I am not going to let some silly young woman interfere with my plans, you can be assured of that."

Having failed to locate Graham, Ed and Mike had decided to set off to try and find the crash site on their own, it was not their preferred option, but if the Englishman was not willing to cooperate, then there was little they could do. It was already after ten by the time they returned to the hotel. No one was at reception and the bar was deserted.

"This place is like a morgue midweek," Ed said.

"Nothing much to keep us here, I guess... what say we make our move first thing tomorrow. We can check out after breakfast and head down along our planned route to the foothills."

"I guess so Ed... It'll be good to be doing something again... I will see you in the morning."

After a few hours of rather fractured sleep and taking coffee and rolls, the two Americans paid their bill and bade farewell to the Nepal Hotel.

"Thank you, gentlemen, I hope you have enjoyed your stay."

"It was perfectly fine, thank you. We'll be sure to call again, if we are in the area."

Lifting their bags, Mike and Ed turned for the door.

"Oh, sir... excuse me... I almost forgot... this message was left for you last evening."

Ed took the envelope.

"It's marked urgent," he said.

"I do apologise for the delay, but you were out when the message came."

"What is it Ed?"

"Good god almighty..." he passed the note across to Mike.

Ed, Mike

I need your help. Graham and I have been kidnapped. We are being held at the Candra hotel by the Nazi Kraus using the name of Smythe. We are to be taken by plane to the crash area tomorrow morning early. Please help us.

Loretta.

"That's this morning... come on Ed, let's get across to the Candra and sort this out."

"We may already be too late."

They drove the Land Rover across the city like men possessed, and squealed to a halt outside the elegant Candra Hotel building. Already, the streets were bustling with pedestrian traffic as they pushed through the entrance door and ran to the reception desk.

"I'm sorry gentlemen, but the Smythe party has already left the hotel."

"Do you know where they went?" Mike asked.

"There was no forwarding address, I'm sorry."

Mike turned to Ed.

"What now?"

"If we hurry, we might catch them at the airport."

"OK let's go..."

The airport proved as fruitless as the Candra Hotel had been. They were unable to offer a description of the plane, but in any case, no small aircraft had taken off from the airport that morning, piloted by any Smythe, Kraus or otherwise.

"If it was a private airstrip we'll never find it..."

"I think it will be too late now anyway... god damn, why didn't we get that note earlier?"

"Since we've struck a blank we'd better take this note to the police. Get some professional help."

"The headquarters are in Naxal I think... "

They returned to the city, at a more respectable pace and made for the police headquarters.

"Try to lay still, sir, you have suffered a rather severe concussion."

A bright light flashed in his eyes.

"Well, that's looking better; it seems you are back with us."

"What happened?" Graham asked, as he slowly emerged from a morass of confusion.

"They tell me you were hit by a vegetable truck."

"A vegetable truck... really...? So, this is the hospital?"

"Yes, sir... could you tell me your name?"

"Err... of course... it's... err..."

"That's all right, don't worry, it will take a while for your brain to reorganise itself."

"How long have I been here?"

"You were brought in mid-morning, yesterday... it's now nine o'clock."

"Nine, that's... half of the day?"

"Nine in the morning, sir, twenty-two hours since you were admitted."

"A whole day... and I've been unconscious all the time?"

"You have been drifting on the edge of waking for some hours now..."

"Peters..."

"I beg your pardon?" the doctor said.

"Peters... Graham Peters, that's my name..."

"Ah excellent, I feel you are starting to recover, you will be in some discomfort for a while... There's a crack to the bridge of your nose, a dislocated shoulder which we have taken care of, but it will be painful for some time. Nothing life threatening, the bruising on your legs and chest might make moving a little uncomfortable for several days... we have been unable to contact any relatives, is there someone we should inform, someone who might be worrying about you?"

"Err... I'm not sure."

"Well, don't worry about that for the moment Mr Peters, now that we have a name, we will inform the police, I'm sure they will be able to locate your relatives... you should rest now; bed rest is the fastest way to recover your strength."

Graham closed his eyes and almost immediately entered a dream world again. It was filled with dark creatures that howled, half seen in the shadows, of dangerous faceless men in Nazi uniform, of urgent appointments missed down the dark tunnel of an alley. Above all the anxiety, there hovered an angel, her face so familiar, the turn of her cheek, the softness of her lips so compelling, but her name was as irretrievable as her identity...

When Graham woke again it was afternoon, and as his eyes opened onto the stark brightness of a hospital room. He saw a face he knew.

"Hello old bean... I guess you've been in the wars."

"Mike... good to see you."

Graham tried to lift himself up the bed, but the effort was ultimately too much for him.

"How did you find me?"

"The local cops... just lay still buddy, the doctor said we shouldn't disturb you... but..."

Graham turned his head towards the voice and recognised Mike's accomplice in crime, Ed Stewart.

"But what Ed?"

"We got this note... do you think you can read it?"

He handed Loretta's urgent cry for help into Graham's fingers.

"Oh my god... of course, Loretta... what does it mean... she thinks I've been kidnapped... have you been to the Candra?"

"We didn't get the message until this morning... I'm sorry Graham, but we were too late, they had already checked out."

"Just let me try and piece this together... my mind is just not that clear yet..."

His thoughts drifted back, to an altogether different place... it seemed so long ago now. He remembered Loretta's hair, smelling sweetly of vanilla, on the night that she came with him in the Daimler, when they drove down to the river and dined at the Celandine and then sat in the tranquil garden as the evening fell.

"Graham...?"

He looked up, seeming to have trouble forming the words, then they suddenly tumbled like an avalanche:

"I seem to remember... we were on the way to report Kraus's presence, when we spotted them... I think I was attacked... Loretta must have been taken... my god Mike, Kraus'll kill her without a second thought... she'll be in terrible danger... what the hell can we do?"

"Take it easy buddy, you are in no shape to do anything, leave this to Ed and me... the US cavalry is about to mount up..."

Mike rose to his full height, he seemed energised by the challenge that lay before him. He had the stance of a boxer with trim curled hair. The intense blueness of his eyes came somehow as a surprise when first encountered. You might have expected something darker, a menace that was not quite there.

"I appreciate the gesture Mike, but realistically, what can you do?"

"We'll give chase of course."

"But you'll never catch them if they are in a plane."

"The plane can only take then so far, then they'll be on foot... we have the Land Rover... I think the odds sound pretty even to me... what do you say, Ed?"

"I'm with you Mike... Loretta is not the sort of honey we can leave to the likes of some murdering Nazi bastard... don't you worry none Graham, we'll bring her home safe."

"I've got a route planned... it might be more accurate than the one you have... if you could find my jacket..."

Graham tried to sit up, but as his head lifted his vision clouded, swirling towards a compelling blackness and he passed out again."

"Doc... doc, get in here!" Mike called.

A nurse rushed in and examined the unconscious man.

"You had better leave gentlemen... "

She picked up a telephone and began an urgent conversation in Nepali.

"Here's his jacket..." Ed said.

He unzipped the inside pocket and withdrew an annotated map and some dog-eared sheets of hastily scribbled notes.

"This must be it... yes, the route is marked clearly... looks as if we were headed for the wrong valley altogether."

"We better make a move Ed... Loretta's counting on us, I guess we're her only chance."

"I'm way ahead of you Mike... I just hope we're not too late already."
Chapter Twenty-six

The Beechcraft 18 lifted without effort into the still morning air. It circled the makeshift landing strip, then with a dip of its wings Richard turned the plane to its correct heading and lifted the nose to gain altitude. Viewed from the ground, it soon became nothing more than a disappearing speck. The terrain they flew over was an arduous and daunting prospect on foot, or even with the aid of a four-wheel drive vehicle. In the air, the twin-engine Beechcraft made easy work of the distance. Slumped in her seat, her mind caught in a fog, Loretta watched through the pale sunlight as they flew over the undulating terrain and the terraced fields that looked like a patchwork quilt, haphazardly thrown across the ground. Gaining altitude, they cruised above the silver laced cloud banks with the sunlight shafting into the plane. They might have been on their way to nirvana.

Within an hour, Richard throttled back the engines and sank beneath the clouds, following the silvery winding course of the river Isolde had determined would take them to their destination. It might have been a scenic flight, but the prospect of having to find a suitable landing site still hung as a concern. In the shadow of the mountains, there were gusts of turbulence that rocked the Beechcraft as the air warmed by the sun was lifted, and cold air from the Himalayas rushed down the slopes to replace it.

"Richard, down there, on the left... that looks like the place."

"Are you sure, I thought it would be another few miles yet."

"I can't be certain, but there were shallow caves just above the valley floor that looked like a good match to the ones used by the lost agents."

"I'll circle for a while, drop a little lower."

The aircraft dipped its right wing and scribed an elegant arc in the icy air. Above them, a mass of heavy cloud was starting to develop, rolling down from the peaks, resembling a slow motion avalanche of weightless snow. Richard continued to circle, but each time he neared the rise of the mountains the buffeting became severe. He took a firm grip of the control stick and wrestled the Beechcraft back towards the smoother air of the valley.

"Flying through this mountainous terrain is not as easy as I'm used to... I suspect we are close enough to our destination... we should look for a suitable place to land."

As he spoke, they entered an air pocket and the Beechcraft suddenly dropped fifty feet. Isolde gripped her seat, until today, her brief experience of flying had been confined to airliners, and the buffeting from the small Beechcraft was proving to be an altogether different and unnerving experience.

"There, there Richard... that seems to be a relatively flat area."

"I saw it..." Richard said.

He fought with the vibrating joystick trying to keep the aircraft straight and level.

"I'm going to turn into the wind and make an approach next time round."

He throttled back and lowered the landing gear. As the wheels came down there was an alarming shudder along the airframe.

"What was that?"

Isolde turned her face to Richard, she still had infinite faith in him, but less so in the ageing aircraft.

"Don't worry..." he said.

His own pulse was now starting to race. He eyed the red warning light that told him that the landing gear had jammed. He attempted to retract the wheels for a second attempt to smoothly lower the under carriage, but the control was unresponsive to his repeated attempts. Unseen from the cockpit, a thin mist of hydraulic fluid was spraying out into the turbulent wake of the Beechcraft.

"God damn it," Richard said through clenched teeth.

Isolde turned her face to him.

"I have faith in you Richard," she said, "I know you can land safely."

She rested her hand on his arm, but he pushed her away rather more aggressively than was necessary. In his mind, he could only see an image of the Sang Khor Buddha, smiling benignly at him while it wrought all the misfortune that had recently befallen him.

"You will not beat me!" he called above the drone of the engines.

Isolde caught the wild look in his eyes and took no comfort from what she saw. Richard fought to lift the plane's nose... there was a place ahead, a level plateau a dozen miles beyond where Isolde had spotted the caves. He was sure that he had seen it before the last turn. All that mattered now was to get the aircraft on the ground.

"I see it, I see it!" he called.

The place was closer to the mountain slopes than he had intended, but his options were now severely limited. He held the Beechcraft level until he had a landing position fixed in his sight and then committed himself to the approach. The descending cloud had now reached the lower slopes, and the visibility was starting to close in. Richard reduced his speed, the engines grumbling as the throttles were eased.

"Hang on..." Richard said, as much to himself as to his companion.

The slope ran uphill, and beyond a hidden scrabble of rocks was a relatively smooth, if narrow, platform of ground. It might have been a successful landing, if not for the unseen rocks the undercarriage found the instant the Beechcraft kissed the ground. The insecure left wheel strut was ripped out and the aircraft tilted violently. The grass and scrub had already given way to ice covered with a dusting of snow. The Beechcraft slithered along, the second strut collapsing under the uneven load. Finally, as the propellers smashed into the ground, the aircraft slithered to a halt on its belly.

Richard caught his breath and relaxed his fingers.

"We're safe," Richard said. His voice raised, almost hysterically. "Come, everyone out."

It was suddenly silent. Silent and cold; just the rush of the wind and the occasional clatter of a loose rock as it tumbled down towards the valley floor.

The passengers gathered by the bright yellow fuselage. Loretta was still not recovered from her dose of sleeping pills, her almost impish face peered out across the plateau in bewilderment.

"Where's Graham...?" she said to Isolde.

Isolde was pale and shocked, she ignored the young woman who slumped down onto the thin carpet of snow, still not quite able to fully control her legs.

"We're stranded Richard... how do we get back?"

Richard took her in his arms and lifted her.

"Don't you see," he said. "We are safe... I've beaten that damn curse... everything will work out fine. Not far from here Isolde, is the Junkers and my gold... we will soon be rich, rich beyond avarice, you and I."

Isolde studied the man's face as he stood exultant. She now had to accept that Richard Smythe, her beloved and infallible Siegfried Kraus, was not the sane god-like man she had always believed in, but was in fact a delusional megalomaniac. It was not something she could really allow herself to believe... not now. But, there it was, undeniable. Richard was tipping into insanity, and yet he was the only one who could save her.

Loretta, dressed in just her combat trousers and jumper was starting to shiver. She lifted her face up into the cold air... all she could see was a chilling, featureless whiteness.

"Where are you Graham?" she whispered.

"Come on you men, we must collect our equipment and start our journey." Richard's eager voice fell on deaf ears.

He spoke as if the crash landing was nothing more than a routine occurrence. The Sherpas were huddled together, the one who had appeared ill was far from improved. He had been helped from the aircraft by his concerned friends, the discomfort had now turned to a severe pain in his abdomen. The man sank to his knees and uncontrollably vomited a steaming yellow pool into the snow.

"Mr Smythe, sir, we must look after Sajit, until he is well. It is better we stay here with the plane for shelter, until the weather passes."

It was as if Richard had not heard the words, he was staring out across the landscape. Lost in his own thoughts, he was already calculating a route down to the valley where the search for the caves and then the Junkers could start. The scar on the landscape the Beechcraft had made, was clearly visible. One of the landing struts with its large black tyre could be seen a hundred yards from where the aircraft had come to rest. The propellers were bent and useless.

"Isolde, have you any idea where we are on your maps?"

Isolde hesitated, but only for an instant, drawing away from her thoughts of despair, she opened the map and studied the contours of the land.

"I think we must be here," she said pointing to a location with a slightly trembling finger.

"It's maybe ten miles from where I had intended starting our search."

Richard nodded, his earlier rush of manic euphoria seemed to have wilted. He looked up at the sky.

"The weather seems to be closing in... possibly we should camp here until it lifts."

The flakes of snow had already started to curl down from the sky, brushing the dusting of snow off his shoulders he turned back towards the Beechcraft.

The Sherpas refused to go back into the aircraft but pitched their tent in the shelter it provided from the strengthening wind. Once inside the canvas enclosure, they offered what comfort they could to the ailing man. The others returned to the shelter of the Beechcraft. Without heating the inside of the stricken aircraft was little warmer than the outside air, and with no suitable clothing Loretta was starting to shiver as the effects of the sleeping pills were diminishing. She looked up towards Isolde.

"What's wrong with the sick Sherpa?" she asked.

"Possibly food poisoning, he will be fine in a few hours," she replied as if it were a matter of no concern to her. "So, no questions about your young man... no longer interested in him?"

Loretta stared at Isolde trying to understand what species of callousness made her tick.

"It's obvious that Graham's not here," she said. "You clearly lied to me... do you, in fact, have any idea where he is?"

"He was last seen being run down by a truck," Isolde said.

"A truck... no, no."

Tears filled her eyes, and she clambered from the fuselage and ran blindly out into the snow, her hiking boots slithering on the icy ground.

The elder of the three Sherpas, a sturdy man by the name of Kiran, called out to her, but Loretta was running wildly in some unthinking desperation. The snow was ankle deep and she tripped and tumbled. Lying face down she started to sob. A strong arm lifted her and wrapped her in a spare padded cotton jacket that hung almost to her knees.

"Come miss... your mother is unkind to you, I think."

"What...? My mother...? Is that what she told you?"

"Unless I misunderstood... she said you were her daughter."

"That woman wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit her."

"I think so... my name is Kiran, come back to our tent, we have a small stove and a little soup warming."

Loretta wiped her eyes. The realisation that not everyone out here was evil, gave her a little comfort. She smiled at Kiran, and then her self-control slipped away again.

"She told me that Graham is dead..."

"This is the Mr Peters?" Kiran asked.

Loretta nodded to the question.

"Then I think maybe he is not dead... I overheard them talking while you were sleeping. The Smythe man saw the accident, he does not know what happened... he is concerned that your Mr Peters might follow us."

"Really?"

"I heard this with my own ears."

"Thank you," she said and allowed herself to be led back to the Sherpa's tent.

Inside it seemed a little warmer. The tent was manufactured for the cold with two layers of insulated canvas, while standing to one's full height was difficult, it proved to be a modestly comfortable retreat. There was a pot of soup simmering on a small alcohol burning stove. The comforting smell of the broth was already filling the air with its savoury aroma.

"This is Ratna, my brother," Kiran said.

Loretta dragged her fingers through the tangled mass of her hair and smiled at the other Sherpa, then her eyes fell on the sick man, he seemed to be quite unwell. She felt the heat of his forehead with the back of her hand. There was no doubt that he had a fever.

"Does he have any pain?" she asked.

"Yes, here..." Ratna indicated on his own body, the lower right of his abdomen.

"It might be his appendix..." she said.

Carefully she unbuttoned his clothing, through the course woven fabric of his shirt she could see that Sajit's abdomen was swollen. His violent reaction to a gentle touch with her fingers told her that her diagnosis had almost certainly been correct. She knew that he needed an operation, but she also knew that such a thing out here in this remote and desolate place was impossible.

"I'm going to talk to Smythe," she said. "He has a responsibility to do what he can for those he employs."

"Miss Loretta... I fear that Mr Smythe is a troubled man, I fear he has lost his way. We were pushed into accepting his money, but it was a mistake to agree to work for him."

Loretta nodded.

"He is a darker man than you can imagine."

"Then, do not trouble him... it will only be bad for you."

"Maybe they have some painkillers... I know the woman has a supply of sedatives that might make Sajit more comfortable, I'll be back soon."

Loretta pulled open the canvas flap, and still dressed in the Sherpa's oversized jacket, padded across the few paces to the Beechcraft's door. Already the aircraft was covered in a dusting of snow.

"We need to do something for the sick man," Loretta said as she clambered into the cabin.

Isolde and Richard were huddled together in some sort of an embrace, eating bread rolls stuffed with hunks of yellow cheese.

Richard turned towards to her.

"What do you expect us to do?" he said with no indication that he had any concern for the Sherpa.

"Do you have pain killers...? Is there a first-aid box?"

"There's a first-aid box on the far bulkhead," Isolde said. "I doubt it will do much good."

Loretta rummaged through the contents, they were wholly inadequate... she was looking for morphine, but there was none. Among the dressings and antiseptic were a few aspirin... Sajit needed much more than aspirin.

"I think he has appendicitis..." Loretta said

"Yes... I'm not really surprised... he should not have come."

"I don't believe he was left with a great deal of choice... was he, Herr Kraus?"

Richard turned his eyes towards the young woman.

"I needed his strong back, there will be much gold to carry," he said.

"The poor man is in no condition to carry your blood-stained plunder... in any case, what use is gold to you Herr Kraus, when you have lost your damn soul?"

"Ha... such an innocent creature... it will almost be a shame to kill you."

He pulled out an automatic pistol from his flying jacket and pointed it at her.

"No... Richard... not now, not here," Isolde said.

Richard hesitated, such a thing was not like him, out of character. His features showed a slight softening, for a moment Isolde wondered whether he still had a trace of humanity left inside him.

"Very well, you have your stay of execution... you may even prove useful, an extra pair of hands now that we are one down."

"You feel nothing for Sajit?" Loretta asked.

"He is of no use to me," Richard said. "Why should I waste time on him?"

He took a bite from his roll. Isolde stood and inched her way towards Loretta.

"Here, give him some of these... he might find some peace before the inevitable happens."

She handed Loretta her bottle of sleeping pills.

Loretta locked eyes with Isolde and saw a spark, a faint trace of compassion.

"Thank you," she said.

Taking the pills, she made her way back to the Sherpas, back to a place where sanity still ruled.

Loretta gave Sajit a heavy dose of Isolde's pills, then took the broth that Kiran offered to her. She had not realised how hungry she was until she tasted the warming liquid. They sat quietly talking, finally Sajit seemed to be eased and fell into a deep sleep. Eventually, without hearing any further sound from the occupants of the stricken Beechcraft, the light faded from the sky. Starless and without form, the heavens turned about them on their icy plateau. Covered with warm goose-down sleeping bags they slept the deep sleep of the emotionally exhausted.

Richard burst from the creaking frame of Beechcraft as soon as it was light. He marched to the Sherpa's tent and ripped open the flap.

"Time to move... we have work to do. Collect your things and prepare for a march across to the east. A few more miles and then we can begin our search in earnest."

With the exception of Sajit who still slept, they emerged one by one from the tent.

"How is the sick one?" Richard asked.

"The man is sleeping... he is simply too ill to move," Loretta said as she stood before Richard, defiant and angry.

"Will he recover?"

"It is unlikely..."

"Then I shall resolve the situation..."

Richard pushed his way into the tent, the air in the tent had a staleness, the lingering smell of some boiled concoction that they had eaten. He crouched down and examined Sajit. Shaking the man's shoulder, he spoke:

"Wake up you confounded man."

Sajit winced, then his eyes opened a flicker.

"No, I see they were right," Richard said.

Standing, he drew out his pistol and fired a single shot into the man's head.

The other two Sherpas burst into the tent. Overcome by anger, Ratna lashed out with his fists knocking the German to the ground. Richard twisted to his feet, his revolver still clutched in his hand.

"You really think that a couple of primitive untermensch like you can challenge a high-ranking SS officer?"

"Richard... be calm... we need these men," Isolde said, as she stood by the door of the tent.

Richard paused as Isolde's words drew him back.

"Indeed... as always, you are a voice of reason..." Richard said.

A trickle of blood ran down from his lip and as he emerged from the tent. It left drips of scarlet on the white snow.

"If you wish, you may bury him... I give you fifteen minutes, then we march."

He turned and paced back to the aircraft.

"We will not help him, my brother and I will take Sajit back home to his wife."

"You are going to carry him all the way back to Kathmandu?" Isolde asked.

"We will make a... I do not know the word... like a sledge to drag."

"A litter?" Loretta said.

"Yes, I think so."

"But, it's too far..."

"We are used to travelling across these mountain passes, for us it is no hardship... we will travel with heavy hearts for the loss of our companion... you may accompany us if you wish Miss Loretta."

"She's going nowhere..." Isolde stood before them.

"I'll make my own choice in the matter, if you don't mind," Loretta said.

"Really... even if we let you go, you'd never make it... a slip of a girl like you, across terrain like this." Isolde suddenly seemed drained, she sank to her knees. "The truth is; I need you Loretta... I'm beginning to see Richard for who he is... Richard is growing..."

"Increasingly insane?" Loretta finished Isolde's sentence for her.

"He's not insane, it's just the stress... but I need you... a rational voice in this damned wilderness."

"Why should I care for you, Isolde...? It was you, not that Nazi lunatic, who had Graham attacked in London. You are both cut from the same cloth."

"I've done some terrible things in the past few months... I have no excuse... maybe passion."

She looked up at Loretta.

"You understand passion. I see it when you talk of your Graham... you understand how a deep passion can drive you to do foolish things? Please... don't leave me alone."

Loretta's voice was raised in anger.

"You two deserve each other... yes, I understand passion, I also understand compassion. Compassion and love... I suspect those are alien concepts to you..."

She pushed Isolde violently and the elder woman fell backwards into the snow. Richard was drawn back from the aircraft by the commotion.

"What's going on?" he called. "Isolde are you hurt?"

"The Sherpa's are returning home with their dead friend," Loretta said.

"The devil they are..."

He drew his pistol again.

"You can shoot us if you wish, but we will never work for you..." Kiran said.

"If that's what you want then I believe I can accommodate you..."

He raised his pistol and took careful aim.

"No, Richard... nothing will be served by executing these two men..."

Isolde struggled to her feet.

"They will not work for you... let them go... please darling... do this for me. Show me that you are the true honourable leader of men that I know you to be."

Isolde's world was crumbling around her... she had not signed up for this... living at the whim of a man who seemed bent on self-destruction.

"Please Richard..."

Her words were cut short by a terrible sound that barrelled down the mountain pass, echoing from the dark mass of rock. It was a deep and penetrating howl that sent a shiver through them all. Richard had heard such a howl before, but then it had been far away, a sound that you might, with a company of heavily armed men around you, be able to ignore. Now without his troops, he felt the icy shock of true nauseating fear, for possibly the first time in his life. Loretta had heard the sound before too, and the second time was no easier for her to come to terms with. The two Sherpas exchanged a knowing and intimate glance, while Isolde pressed her hands against her ears and sank trembling to her knees on the snow.

"What now?" she called... "What in god's name was that?"
Chapter Twenty-seven

Despite the taxing conditions, Mike and Ed had made spectacular progress, thanks to the sturdy Land Rover. Initially, the journey had been relatively straight forward as they followed the sealed roads. Even as these metamorphosed into rough tracks, they were largely unhindered, but when the tracks finally gave way to an uncharted slew of scrub, rock and slithering clay, their speed dropped to a more measured pace.

Perhaps to focus his mind, to prevent it from pulling him in so many directions, or perhaps because of the relevance to their current situation, Ed's mind turned to the first time he had encountered Loretta. It had been in London, he remembered. At some press function, he seemed to recall, a place with the bizarre name of Ludgate Circus. There was no evidence of a circus, whatsoever, which might have offered a more entertaining evening. Graham Peters, whom he vaguely knew at the time, had brought Loretta along with him, and yet she had seemed to be hovering, not quite able to settle as Graham Peters', nor possibly anyone's, significant other. She seemed self-possessed, with an independence of spirit. He and Mike had been delayed from taking a trip to the Middle East, by a prolonged sequence of inclement weather that had closed the airport. They had accepted the invitation at the last minute. Never quite approaching their table, he had watched Loretta through discrete glimpses: tiny waist, elegant, so young and so remote. A true English rose he had thought. When she noticed him looking in her direction, she offered him a smile that sent his pulse racing. If he had not been on the cusp of leaving the country, he might have followed up that smiling offer... whatever promise it might have held. Enough to say, that there was an unexpressed fondness for the young woman. But that was then, now she was in need not of admiring glances but of desperate help.

By the second day, as their route took them further from the bounds of civilisation, they were slowed for much of the time to little more than walking pace. They inched their eager vehicle across the rutted hilly landscape and wound round hidden bluffs that were edged, more often than not, with sudden looming catastrophic drops. More than once, the Land Rover found itself poised over a crumbling edge of loose rock, and only Ed's quick reflexes saved them from disaster.

The outside temperature was rapidly falling as they gained elevation, across the valley they could see the muffling haze of falling snow that drifted down from the heavy dark clouds. In the far distance, set like a backdrop from an epic movie, was the constant overwhelming mass of the Himalayas at once majestic and oppressive. Against that perspective, the two men felt insignificant, but even so, nothing could deflect them from their mission to save Loretta... certainly not a little bad weather.

Graham's directions, though lacking in detail, seemed faultless and the two Americans were constantly edging closer to where the Nazi and, good fortune willing, Loretta could be found.

As the second day matured into an interminable afternoon, they began to encounter unexpected set-backs. They were frustratingly forced to back track, more than once, when faced with an unpassable obstacle that would not have shown on any map. The shadows were already drawing long when the Land Rover finally broached the top of a particularly hazardous water-splashed slope of rock. They followed the crest a little further, the tyres fighting for grip on the slippery surface. When Ed finally pulled to a halt, he took out his brass field glasses and scanned the horizon. Getting out of the vehicle into the cutting icy wind, he shivered as he delicately edged up to a rocky platform. Ed's vantage point was a small rise of loose slabs of schist, which opened out across two massive pillars of black rock. From there, he had a good view of the valley that lay before them, and across the valley to a snowy plateau on the other side.

"Over there... take a look," he said.

Mike inched his way across to Ed's side, taking the binoculars, he drew the image into focus with a slow turn of the thumb wheel.

"What? I can't see a thing."

"A small yellow smudge... see the flat slide of land up high, across the other side of the valley... mostly covered up in snow?"

"Yeah... oh, wait yes, something yellow... it's hard to see in this damn fading light... I think it's... yes, it must be the airplane... looks to be snowed in."

"That's what I thought; it has to be them, no one else would be foolish enough to attempt to land there."

"Looks like we've made good progress then... how far away do you think it is?"

"Can't see us getting across there in less than a couple of hours... finding a way down to the valley floor looks damned tricky, then we have to climb back out which won't be any easier... any sign of activity across there?"

"Hard to tell... it's still too far away to see any detail, I guess they will have set off on foot by now. We must be a good day and a half behind them."

"Well, they are on foot and as long as the Rover keeps plugging along, we'll soon catch them."

"I guess so... let's press on, I'm not sure how much daylight we've got left, and I don't think we should be driving across this sort of stuff in the dark."

The Land Rover slithered down a narrow ravine in low gear, the wheels locking and sending the machine skating sideways. They seemed to be constantly on the edge of tipping over, but despite their concern, the machine took everything in its stride. Once the terrain had levelled out and they started edging up the other side of the valley, the snow began. It was unseasonal snow but far from unusual at this altitude. Mike and Ed pressed on until the light faded, and the beams of the Rover's headlights were choked with swirling snowflakes.

"We'd better camp for the night Mike; at least we have the scent of them now. By tomorrow, once we get up to the airplane, we should be able to run them down."

"Yeah, I was hoping we could get up there before it got dark... truth is, I'm pretty bushed in any case... a rest and something to eat sounds quite appealing just about now."

Mike twisted his head back, towards the rear of the cabin. There was precious little room left inside with the stores of food and camping equipment filling up the space. Extra cans of petrol were strapped to the outside of the Land Rover, but there were a couple of large cans of water in the back. Close to Mike's arm, was a shotgun he had managed to acquire in Kathmandu. He lifted it up and rested it on his knee. Ed turned on the interior light to take another look at Graham's map.

"Looks as if Kraus had some pretty accurate information, from what I can tell, he's landed very close to the route that Graham plotted out."

"Well, that's to our advantage, if he was looking in the wrong area, we'd never have found him."

"I guess so."

Ed eyed the shotgun.

"We won't be needing that thing... not for a while, in any case."

"Just making sure it's readily at hand..."

He flipped the barrel breach lever and broke the gun open. It was an ancient side by side double barrel 12 gauge. Spanish made and finely tooled, it might have been a valuable piece fifty years ago, but years of neglect had taken off the sheen. They had picked it up for a song from a leathery skinned street trader, whose toothless grin indicated a satisfaction with the bargain he had worried from the Americans. Mike slipped two blood red cartridges in, and closed the gun with a smooth click.

"You never know what's out there," he said.

"Yeah well, you just go easy with that thing... shouldn't you have taken some practice shots with it?"

"I've fired a shotgun before Ed... get close enough and you can't miss... besides, I only got a handful of cartridges... all the guy had."

"OK Mike, I just don't want you taking my head off with the damn thing."

"Oh, don't you worry none... I got more important targets in mind than your head," Mike said, his wry grin lost to the darkness.

Loretta, fine boned and slender of muscle, was stronger than she looked and to endure the trek to the crashed Junkers, she would need to draw on every ounce of that strength. She had stood silently, watching as the two Sherpa brothers took their tragic burden and started the long trudge back to Kathmandu. Going with them would have been her preference, but ultimately, she was given no choice. Still swallowed into the folds of the oversize jacket, Loretta watched silently as the only friendly faces she had encountered out in the Himalayan foothills, were engulfed into the swirling snow. Disappearing from view until, pace by pace, they became nothing more than a bitter-sweet memory lingering like ghosts, on the icy plateau.

Richard, calmed by Isolde's desperate invocation and possibly some lingering disquiet, brought on by the disturbing howl, had relented. Ultimately, he could see the futility in wasting good ammunition on the intransigent Sherpas. Indeed, he might need the bullets, for something... a fearsome something, still unseen.

At the edge of the plateau, ran a small creek that was fed by water tracing down from the higher slopes. In the height of summer, it would have cascaded as a pretty waterfall, tumbling across the polished rocks and down the fifty feet to the pool and the alpine wild flowers below. But now, caught in a moment of stillness, Richard could hear the trickle of water creaking as it froze solid. Isolde was watching him; he was undeniably an imposing figure, framed handsome, blue-shadowed, against the slopes of snow. The air was so still and bitter, that his breath was visible as it rose in a solid white mass of freezing air.

They had bound Loretta's wrists and strapped a heavy pack to her back. Inside the pack was a weighty canvas tent and some other randomly selected provisions. Although she could not see it, mounted on top and covered in a wrapping of oiled cloth was, rather bizarrely, a large Luis DeMargue hat box. Despite his growing irrationality, Richard was still a pragmatic man; the end game was all that mattered, and the end game was the gold. That, and being finally rid of the golden Buddha.

"You can start now young woman... you lead the way, I will tell you when you need to turn."

Loretta pulled her sleeves down the best she could, over her non-gloved fingers, tucking them into a fold of her ample jacket, she leaned forward to balance the weight of her load and with her gaze as steady as a huntress, she strode out into the snow, into the vast unknown. Looking down into the valley to her left, there was a shimmer of green that whispered of a more moderate climate where living creatures were meant to reside; the path she had to take, was a stark black and white landscape... no place for a delicate young woman. The conditions, especially for the time of year, were an intimidating prospect. Thick surges of snow swept across the edge of the mountains, like the swelling waves before an Atlantic storm, but Loretta bent to her task and marched away from the abandoned Beechcraft. Maintaining her dignity in the face of everything, she held on to one thought, it was something she had to believe in, Graham was still alive, and he would, without question, come after her and he would somehow find her.

Before the rising sun had quite banished the long-drawn shadows from the plateau, Mike and Ed had reached the carcase of the stricken yellow Beechcraft. They found the area to be deserted.

"They must have set off long ago," Ed said with regret, possibly edged with a little relief.

"There's some faint tracks... should be easy to follow." Ed nodded, but his attention was drawn to the snow-covered Beechcraft.

"Looks like a heavy landing."

"I think so... that crate won't be flying again... not this side of thanksgiving."

"So, how are they figuring to get the gold back, do you suppose?"

"Beats me Ed... you think there's anything useful in there?"

"I guess not, let's climb aboard and take a look round."

Inside they found some empty packing cases, but little else, certainly nothing worth acquiring. They clambered back down into the snow.

"How good are you at tracking Mike?"

"Guess we're about to find out... I know what you're thinking: how many sets of footprints are there?"

"On the money... let's check it out."

It was hardly difficult, on examination there were clearly three distinctly different tracks, leading off down the slope of the plateau. The tracks were clear enough, but the indentations were rapidly filling with the softly falling snow and would soon become indistinct.

"I'd say, those small ones are Loretta's footprints..."

"You can tell that because...?"

"Oh, I might have made a study of her features when she wasn't looking."

"Down to the size of her feet? I hope there are no ulterior motives bubbling away in that mind of yours, Mike."

"No, not really... I can see how the land lies with Graham... but, if she ever came available..."

Ed smiled, he knew Mike from way back, the man was a sucker for a pretty face... any pretty face.

"Yeah well, you might have to arm wrestle me for her first."

"Didn't know you were taken by the sweet Loretta."

"There's a lot you don't know about me Mike..."

"I guess so."

"OK, nothing for us here Mike, let's get going. Looks like we've still got a damsel in distress to rescue."

Raising his voice to the wind he called out...

"Hold on little darlin', the Cavalry's coming."

Still confined to his hospital bed, Graham was starting to feel better. There was still pain, quite a lot in fact, but that had not diminished his concern for Loretta. He was starting to feel compelled to do something about it.

He knew that Aadarsh was due back at any time, and on an impulse decided to make his way up to the hills and find his friend, maybe borrow the Jeep. His plan was not well formulated. He pulled out the intravenous line and lifted himself from his bed. He found his clothes in the cupboard by his bed and started to dress. Bending down to tie his shoes was proving difficult.

"Mr Peters, what on earth do you think you are doing?"

"I appreciate all you have done for me nurse, but I need to go and find my girl."

The nurse looked at Graham with a measure of sympathy.

"She must mean a lot to you."

"Just a little... well, are you going to stand there or are you going to help me with these confounded boot laces?"

Following a brief one sided negotiation with his doctor, it was finally accepted that Graham would not be hindered in his desire to discharge himself. He burst through the exterior doors into a grey morning and limped down the steps. He stretched his back feeling the pain from his bruised ribs, but also a hint of the return of his strength.

"Mr Graham... I'm surprised to see you up. Namaste."

"Aadarsh, my dear fellow... I was just on my way to see you."

"Kamala told me, with some anxiety I might say, that you had not returned home. I visited the police straight away...I rushed here as soon as I heard from the police what had happened. They told me you were quite ill... "

"I'm not so bad...you know that Loretta has been kidnapped?"

"Good gracious no! Kidnapped by who?"

"It's a long story... you have the Jeep?"

"Of course, come, I'll take you home."

"I can't go home Aadarsh... I need to find Loretta."

As they walked back towards the Jeep, Graham told his story.

"Is this true, you were hit by a truck on the street...? I tell you, the streets were much safer in my day."

"Well, that's what they tell me... to be honest, those events are lost to my memory... but the minutes before are clear enough... I was attacked in an alley by the infamous Herr Kraus, I must have wandered out onto the road in a dazed state. I imagine the truck could not stop... I'm sure it was not his fault."

"Kraus... this is the same man the child Avrina named when we were at the monastery in Tibet."

"Indeed, it is..."

"This is a most troubling development... "

Graham showed Aadarsh the note that Loretta had hastily written. The man's eyes grew wide as he scanned Loretta's cry for help.

"This is indeed most terrible..."

"Yes, it is... I may have mentioned Mike and Ed to you..."

"Yes, the American journalists."

Graham nodded.

"They have set off after Kraus to try and recover Loretta... in all honesty, I can't imagine why she has been taken, but I'm sick with worry... I need to be out there searching for her myself."

"Are you well enough for such a journey?"

Graham looked across at his friend.

"I am, if I had the means," he said.

"Oh, you have the means my friend... I will talk to Kamala and I will get the fuel and equipment for the Jeep."

"I knew that's what you would say," Graham clasped the man's hand. "You are a true friend."

After the best part of the day spent following footprints in the snow, Mike and Ed had still not sighted their quarry. They brought the Land Rover to a halt and got out to more closely examine some clearly defined footprints. There were still three sets, and the impressions were now clearer so that even the pattern of their individual boots was discernible.

"We must be getting close to them," Mike said.

"So, let's get on with this... have you thought what we should do when we catch sight of them?"

"I guess I have...pretty much... it involves this..." Mike lifted the shotgun. "I'll tell them to hand over Loretta or taste a little lead shot."

"That Kraus guy is likely to be armed too."

"Yeah, but we'll have surprise on our side..."

Ed shrugged, and they got back in the Rover and started the engine with a snarl of revs.

Little more than 200 yards away Isolde suddenly stopped walking. She had been struggling to keep up, fighting for breath that came to her in short stabbing wheezes.

"Richard... did you hear that?"

"What?"

"It sounded like an engine."

"It must be your imagination... unless, that confounded Peters has worked a miracle and managed to catch us up. It's possible you know... I believe he has been aided all along by the Sang Khor. Well, damn his eyes if he thinks he can stop me now."

Isolde shook her head in sadness, seeing the once brilliant man reduced to this... he stood still and with his head cocked to one side listened carefully. Across the rush of the wind he caught the faint thrash of a low revving engine, the crunch of tyres on snow.

"Good god, I think you're right... come on let's take cover."

At the sound of Graham's name being mentioned Loretta had turned back, and now she too could hear the approaching vehicle.

She called out into the whiteness: "Graham look out..."

Her thoughts were all for him... to keep him safe from the murderous Kraus.

"Keep quiet you pathetic English trollop," Richard snarled.

He pulled out his pistol, and as if it were a matter of no consequence, silenced Loretta with a single shot. She fell spiralling, the spray of blood mingling with the dance of the falling snow, like a scene from some macabre ballet.

Richard drew Isolde into the cover of a cleft of rock. He let his backpack slip from his shoulders and crouched down.

The Land Rover slithered to a stop and Ed cranked on the hand brake.

"Was that a gun shot?"

"I heard it too Ed... we have to go on but watch your back."

As they edged round the next bluff of dark rock, they came upon an opening of relatively flat ground, maybe the size of a tennis court, edged with a slide of loose rock and mud on one side and a precipitous drop on the other. There, slumped by where the ball boy might have squatted, was a figure in the snow. Even from their distance, they could see the spray of scarlet blood desecrating the sanctity of the virgin snow. A little white mist was rising from the unmoving body curling up into the sky.
Chapter Twenty-eight

Ahead of them was a narrow ledge, hardly wider than the Land Rover's track.

"Reckon she'll make it?" Mike said as the Land Rover idled inches away from a precipice.

Ed shrugged.

"I guess we have no choice...you up for it?"

"What the hell... give it a go!"

He gripped his seat, as if it might save him should the Rover fall into the chasm. Ed inched the machine forward. There was only ten yards or so to cross before the slope widened, but already they could feel the edge starting to crumble under the weight of the vehicle.

"Christ's sakes, gun it Ed, we're slipping..."

Ed had already floored the throttle and the engine responded with a snarl of revs, the tyres bit into the loose scrabble of crumbling rock and ice and hurled them forward. A huge chunk of the edge fell away, crashing down in a crumbling mass for a hundred feet or more. The engine screamed as Ed willed the four-wheel drive onwards. The rear tyre clutched against the collapsing ledge until it found sufficient purchase to hurl them up and over onto solid ground. The Land Rover accelerated across what was left of the narrow ledge and found footing in the clearing. Ed turned his screaming vehicle sharply, sawing at the wheel, driving plumes of snow up from the spinning tyres.

"To your left... she's there!" Mike called.

Ed skidded the Land Rover to a halt, facing the shape that lay like a bundle of discarded clothing on the snow.

"It's her... it's Loretta...I'd know her anywhere."

Mike grabbed his shotgun and jumping from the vehicle ran...

"Mike... Mike... be careful!" Ed called.

Fools rush in he thought, but then the urgency of the moment reduced him to a fool as well, and he darted after Mike in a flurry of kicked up snow.

"How is she?" Ed called, but before Mike could answer another voice boomed out from behind them.

Richard and Isolde had emerged from their cover of fallen rock, he stood tall and confident, feet apart, with the flashing steel of his pistol held comfortably in his hand.

"Quite an entrance... I found that most impressive. I'm so pleased you managed to get the truck across... I shall be needing it later... things to transport, you know."

"You won't be transporting any god damned thing..." Ed snarled.

"You think not...?"

Mike turned to face him.

"So... Kraus... we finally meet. We're here to take Loretta home."

"Ah, you know my name... you have the advantage of me there, but it hardly matters. I doubt you will be telling your tale to anyone. As for the English girl... I fear your arrival might have been just a little late."

Mike turned his head to look at the crumpled body in the snow. The most compelling of the hundred or so emotions that rippled through his body was anger...

"You god damned double dipped bastard..."

He lifted his shotgun until it drew level with Richard's arrogant frame. They were separated by no more than ten yards and Mike knew what damage the shotgun would reap. It felt suddenly very heavy in his hands, as the weight of what he was about to do settled on his shoulders.

"What a quaint turn of phrase you Americans possess... did that damn journalist Peters send you on this suicide mission?"

Mike narrowed his eyes, ignoring the question.

"I'm going to take considerable pleasure in blowing your head off," he said.

"No, no, no, take a grip young man. Just lay your shotgun down in the snow and step back from it."

"Like hell I will..."

Mike raised his shotgun at little higher, pointing it at the centre of Richard's chest. His face had developed an intensity that Ed had never seen before. The muscles round his jaw were flexed and twitching.

"I can't miss from here, you Nazi bastard... drop that pea-shooter of yours and get on your knees or so help me..."

Richard laughed.

"You really think that you can stop me now... now that I am so close? The fates have brought me here... I am the exulted one, beyond the reach of you plebeian dogs."

"You don't say... on your knees or I'll fire," Mike repeated.

His voice was raised and pregnant with growing rage, like the slow build of a once in a fifty-year storm. Richard thought himself immune, he knew in his core at that instant, that he had joined the ranks of the immortals. His eyes narrowed as he squeezed his trigger, the bullet searing in a viscous stab of pain against Mike's leg.

Mike flinched, his gun wavering for an instant, but he held onto his stance like a boxer who had been stung by an unexpected left jab. He pulled both triggers of his shotgun and braced for the recoil. There was nothing. The only sound was the impotent click of the trigger mechanisms. Richard raised his head to the sky and laughed like only a mad man can.

"Drop the shotgun or I most certainly will kill you."

"Do as he says, Mike..." Ed called as he lifted his eyes back from Loretta.

"No way..."

Mike reset the triggers and fired again. The result was the same hollow silence from the aged shotgun. Richard had endured enough of the pointless dramatics by now. He shot both men, not to kill but to maim. They took a disabling wound in their thighs just above the knee.

"I think I may leave you out here to die slowly, until the vultures come and pick at you... I understand they go for the eyes first..."

Isolde shuddered at the thought, but even as she recoiled, she took Richard's arm and clung to him.

Mike and Ed could no longer stand, the blood was pooling around them, warm and steaming against the snow as their life force drained away.

Richard pulled the shotgun from the fallen journalist's fingers, Mike could no longer summon the strength to hold onto it. With a fling of his arm, the useless weapon was hurled spinning over the edge. They never heard the distant sound as the wooden stock shattered into pieces on the rocks far below. He turned to Isolde.

"Come with me," he said softly.

She was numbed and followed meekly as he led her to the Land Rover. Then suddenly, remembering something, he turned back and retrieved an innocent looking package wrapped in oiled cloth that had fallen onto the snow by Loretta's body. He walked back to the Land Rover and with a smile of arrogant victory called to the prostrate Americans:

"You have furnished what I need... a vehicle to transport my gold. Thank you for this gift. Of course, the fates have engineered its presence here, you were simply pawns in the intricate strategy that has lifted me to stand with Odin in the halls of Valhalla."

Isolde watched in terrified astonishment, as the last strands of Richard's sanity finally slipped away. There was nothing she could do now, she was still tied to him and their shared future by binds stronger than any chains. Richard mounted the Land Rover and with Isolde at his side, drove away leaving the huddled shapes to their fates. He wondered if it would be loss of blood or hypothermia that got them before the vultures would have time to gather. It was nothing more than a passing thought, his mind was already wallowing in anticipation of finding his treasure.

"Do you know where we need to go?" Aadarsh said.

"I believe Mike and Ed have taken my map... but, I spent long enough studying it, the route is pretty well etched into my memory. Do you still have that old map we used before? I'll plot the route on it for you."

Aadarsh delved into his jacket pocket and retrieved the yellowed map that had seen them safely to Tibet. With a borrowed stub of pencil, Graham drew the route while Aadarsh watched.

"It may be better if we cut across further to the east just here... from memory, the drop to the valley floor is quite tricky just there."

"I'm more than happy to take your advice on the matter... I hope Ed and Mike didn't run into any difficulties."

"It's not an impossible route, I'm sure they will have managed it, but I think my way will shave a little more than just a couple of hours off the trip."

"You never know... a couple of hours or so might make all the difference."

"Then, let's go..."

The Jeep accelerated away and began the long eastward drive from the capital.

As with the two intrepid Americans, the early part of the journey was easy enough. By the time the light was starting to fade, they had already left the last of the scattered villages behind and were plugging along the trackless terrain pushing the four wheel drive to its limits. Aadarsh's driving was starting to waver, enough to concern Graham.

"Can you see where you're going Aadarsh?"

"It's not easy with the headlights pitching around. My night vision has never been very good."

"Maybe we should stop for the night and set off again early tomorrow?"

"I was hoping to drive through the night, but I fear we might be risking our mission if we continue..."

"Let's find a sheltered spot."

They came to rest in a small narrow ravine sheltered from the wind. Graham stood in the darkness, a calmness, a determination had fallen over him. Loretta was the only thing that mattered to him now, and he would find her and bring her home. He flexed his shoulder, the pain was almost welcome as it drove an inner strength within him. The strength had always been there, but never before had he found the need to draw on the resource that it gave him.

"Let's not make camp... we'll have a little food, and then I'll drive on. My night vision is good."

"Finding her is very important to you, isn't it?"

"It's everything Aadarsh, more than I really understood before..."

He stood silent for a moment, searching the sky for stars, but there were none.

It took them almost an hour to prepare and eat some hot food, and then Graham took the wheel and they drove on. Crossing the rugged terrain that flared against the headlights, Graham pressed on as if he was on intimate terms with every dip and rise, every chasm that might bring disaster. As the first glow of dawn filled the sky, Graham stopped to fill the tank from the spare cans. Aadarsh had been dozing and had sunk into his seat, his eyes closed. Graham lay a blanket over him and walked a few paces up to the next ridge to see the view. Everything below was shrouded in mist, as if a white lake had risen overnight flooding the valleys. There was no sign of Loretta out there. No sign of anything.

He must have spent longer than he thought in silent contemplation as he was suddenly stirred from his reverie by Aadarsh's voice.

"Come and eat Mr Graham. We need some food."

Graham marched back and smiled. Beyond the smile was a stoicism that Aadarsh had never noticed before.

"I can't thank you enough for what you are doing," Graham said.

"A man does not abandon his friends in their hour of need."

By mid-morning they had reached the upper slopes leading to the foothills, and now the weather had turned bitter and flecked with gathering snow. A wind had driven the last wisps of low mist away. Graham eased the Jeep to a halt.

"Down there Mr Graham... that is the sacred valley... the valley of the Yeti. The villagers hesitate to set foot on these lands."

"This must be close to where the textile agents had their encounter."

"It's close as the crow flies, but we still have several hours of slow driving ahead of us... then of course, we will need to search for signs of the aircraft."

"I have no idea what sort of aircraft Kraus used."

"I doubt there will be many to choose from."

"Maybe two..." Graham suggested.

"Ah, yes... the unfortunate German aircraft, I was forgetting that."

"I'm sure Herr Kraus hasn't forgotten it."

As they drew closer to the Yeti lands there was a sense of foreboding.

"We should go a little higher... I am not too comfortable disturbing these lands, in any case from above we will have a better view".

Graham agreed and Aadarsh took over driving the Jeep, choosing a track along the side of a shallow stony river, looking for a safe place to cross. They entered the water with a slither of tyres but made the far bank with no trouble. Then they climbed the slope up to a plateau. Snow was falling in heavy sticky flakes, and Aadarsh drew the Jeep to a halt.

"We could climb up to the ledge, there should be a good view across to the west from there. Are you well enough to climb?"

Graham had hardly considered his encounter with the vegetable truck since the journey had started, the ache in his shoulder and across his ribs had been a constant companion, nagging but never disabling.

"Absolutely, I'm well enough to climb," Graham said, the lie was nothing more than a minor white one.

The two men eased themselves out into the ankle deep snow and peered across into a landscape turned white. Below them, the lush forest had long since given way to scrub and rock. Aadarsh edged up towards the ledge. It was proving to be a more difficult climb than he had imagined, his feet slipping on the icy rock as he pulled himself up gripping the crevices with his strong fingers. Graham followed, as he tortured his shoulder and ribcage. He remembered the doctor's words when he had finally accepted that Graham would be discharging himself, whatever argument he could bring against it. Make sure to get plenty of bed rest, he had said.

They finally stood together on the ledge. It was a narrower slab of rock than they had imagined from below, but it did open up an expansive view. Below them was a drop that was impossible to calculate, the bottom disappearing into the swirl of snowflakes. Graham felt the nauseous pull of acrophobia as he looked down. His mind was screaming at him to get the hell out. Looking across the chasm they saw a featureless, colour drained pastiche of shadowy images. Graham breathed deeply, and his heart rate settled a little. Fear of heights can be an irrational malady, but standing on the edge, the fear that Graham felt was driven by a pure lucid instinct for self-preservation.

"Down there, it must be a mile away on that small lower plateau..."

Aadarsh pointed his finger.

"I see it... a glint of yellow shining from the snow."

"This is no twist of luck Mr Graham, karma is truly with us."

As he spoke there was a crack of rock, and the edge of their platform crumbled away without warning, sending the rocks tumbling down over the precipice. Aadarsh lost his footing, he turned and caught the terror in Graham's eyes as he fell. Instinctively, Graham thrust out his arm and caught Aadarsh by his wrist and then collapsed under the weight onto his chest. Aadarsh had gone over the edge, his full weight held by Graham's arm. Naturally it was his damaged shoulder that took the wrench. He screamed as the sinews of his arm took the strain. The pain was almost unbearable, but he did not let go of Aadarsh, who was swinging caught between a rock and... nothingness.

"Let go... I'll drag you over too," Aadarsh screamed.

Graham thought of Kamala and the children, he thought of Loretta, and he did not let go. Grumbling underneath him, he felt the rock on which his chest lay start to crumble. A large chunk of the edge fell and struck Aadarsh on his head. Graham felt the jolt, as another searing pain shot in his shoulder; he felt a sudden ominous stillness from his companion. He could not see it, but a curl of blood was oozing from Aadarsh's temple as he swung like a lead pendulum, rocking against the fulcrum of Graham's shoulder, a dead weight threatening to pull him over. Maybe he was right Graham thought, does it make any sense for us both to die. But he did not let go.

Her cheek was pressed against the snow, icy and numbing. She opened her eyes and remembered where she was instantly. There was no sound, just the curl of steam from her breath... Graham she thought, and then remembered that it had been Mike and Ed who had miraculously stumbled upon them. Risking moving, she tried to roll onto her side, but there was a weight pressing down on her. She remembered the heavy back pack she had been carrying. Rolling onto her side she managed to sit up. Her wrists were still bound so she could not free herself of the heavy burden. She saw that the Land Rover had gone and wondered for an instant if the whole thing had been nothing more than a dream, but then the sting from her wound snapped her back to the present.

There was blood sprayed on the snow around her. She scrabbled at the fastenings of the jacket until it fell open, revealing that the bullet had passed between her left arm and her rib cage. Both has taken a wound, but neither was too serious. Her eyes focussed on her surroundings and saw with horror Mike and Ed's condition. Both men were lying on their backs, blood was pooling from their legs. She heaved herself to her feet and felt the sudden compelling bite of panic threatening to take hold of her. The prospect of being alone out here was beyond terrifying.

"Mike... Ed," she called.

Mike lifted his head.

"You're alive... Loretta, thank god."

"How are you... you've been shot?"

"Both of us... I think Ed's in a bad way."

Loretta moved towards the two Americans who had fallen close to each other. Her eyes told her all she needed to know. Loretta knelt down at Mike's side, the snow by his leg was stained with blood, but the pool of blood was far larger next to Ed's wound.

"You're shot in the thigh..." she said.

"You don't say... the bastard nicked my calf too."

He shifted his weight trying to sit up.

"I'm not too bad... see to Ed, will you."

"Do you think you can untie my wrists?" Loretta asked as a calm determination came to her from some deep inner resource.

"Sure, I'll give it a try."

It took Mike only a few moments to prise open the knots and free Loretta's hands. She slipped the back pack from her shoulders.

"See to Ed will you..." Mike said again.

Loretta locked eyes with Mike, she had no need to see to Ed... his condition was all too obvious to her. His glassy, open-eyed stare, the waxy paleness of his face left little doubt. She shook her head.

"I'm so sorry..."

"No... don't say it..."

"Mike, listen... there's nothing to be done for Ed... he must have lost too much blood."

Mike bit his fist, as if the act could hold back the emotion that welled up in his eyes. Loretta wrapped her arms round him, seeking both to comfort and to be comforted.

"Jesus Christ... I've known Ed the best part of my life, and that Nazi scum has taken his life... this is all my fault... I should have tested the gun... Ed told me..."

"No, no... none of this is your fault. Not yours, not mine, not Ed's. It all lays at the feet of Kraus."

"I'll kill him for this... if it takes me the rest of my life... I'll track him down... I swear it."

"The man is unbalanced... he has this veneer of normality, but his core has been rotted away by his megalomania. Don't worry about him, let me look at your leg."

Loretta ripped open the canvas trousers and exposed the wound. The bullet had passed cleanly through the inner thigh. It appeared that no major vessels had been severed, but blood was still seeping onto Mike's snowy bed.

Turning to her backpack, Loretta opened the heavy strapping and found a first-aid box. There was antiseptic, bandages and cotton pressure pads. Having staunched the flow of blood, she bandaged the wound tightly. Mike was starting to shiver, there may have been a component of shock, but it was mainly down to the freezing temperatures.

"We need shelter..." she said looking round at the small snowy area.

"Is there a tent in there?" Mike asked.

"There is, but Kraus was carrying the poles... it's useless without them."

"It might be better than nothing... I don't think we'll make it through the night out here..."

"Maybe I can rig something up..."

Loretta had noticed a craggy outcrop of rock that she might be able the wedge the top of the tent into. There was plenty of loose rocks that she could use to secure the edges of the tent.

"Give me a minute Mike... I have an idea."

The tent canvas was stiff and unyielding in the frigid conditions, but she managed to cobble together a respectable place to huddle from the cold. She stood back admiring her work, then her hand slipped to her trouser pocket and she drew out the bright red scarf Graham had bought her. With her eyes full of tears, she kissed the scarf, as if she were kissing Graham, then she tied it high above the tent wedging it into a fissure of rock.

"What's that for?" Mike asked, as the wind lifted the long scarf making it dance in the air.

"It's for Graham to find us."

"It's a nice idea Loretta, but no one's coming to find us... no one."

She dragged Mike into the makeshift tent. It was half the size it would have been if there had been poles, but it was better than nothing. Returning to the snow, she stood over Ed's body, then kneeling down, closed his eyes. She wanted to give the American his due dignity, but thinking about it she could see that the courageous man expressed all the dignity in the world. Even in death, he was a thousand times the man that Kraus was.

"Thank you for coming, my darling man," she said, "I'm so, so sorry..."

She kissed his icy cheek and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do.

"Sleep now..."

Loretta made no attempt to hide her tears as she joined Mike in the tent.

"I was just saying goodbye to Ed..." she rubbed her face with her chilled fingers.

Mike nodded... he had no words, none that would not destroy his composure.

They huddled together for warmth.

"You know, you said that no one will be coming to find us... well, I need you to know Mike, that you are wrong... Graham will come and find us... I know he will."

Loretta buried her face into Mike's chest, and he could feel the warmth of her tears as the night fell silently around them.
Chapter Twenty-nine

The ex SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus and Miss Mosley had reached their destination. He pushed his right foot down a little and accelerated the Land Rover across the snow.

"Just up the rise Richard, that's where I think the Junkers must be..." Isolde's words were cut short by the sudden sight of a figure on the slope.

It was rolling down the slope with almost the look of a playful polar bear cub.

"Look out..." she yelled.

"What?"

"The creature..."

There was a fearful bump against the Land Rover, and Richard slewed the Rover to a halt, and everything fell suddenly silent.

"Didn't you see it?" Isolde said.

She leaped from the vehicle, her eyes searching the snow. There was a small patch of blood on the Land Rover's bumper and drips trailing up the slope. Isolde followed the trail with her eyes and saw the creature, clearly an infant struggling, dragging its broken legs up the snow with a pitiful, heart-rending whimper.

"Richard, we have to do something... put it out of its misery at least."

Richard's eyes were focussed on a patch of snow further to the left.

"What...? No, forget that thing. Don't you see it...? The trace of silver... it looks like a tail-plane."

He scrambled up the slope and started digging frantically with his hands.

"This is it Isolde... this is it. Come and help me dig, we have to find the cargo hold."

"But, the poor little creature..."

"Oh, get a grip Isolde... what is it, some species of bear?"

"I don't know."

Richard took out his pistol, the infant creature had struggled to the top of the rise, its whimpering cry for help echoing across the valley. He took careful aim and fired a single shot. Isolde heard the yelp as the infant creature fell, dead.

"Now, are you satisfied?" Richard said.

Isolde was not at all sure that she was.

"Come on, help me dig... my gold is within my grasp..."

She joined him in scraping away the snow... there, under her fingers was a symbol she had once vowed allegiance too. Suddenly, the atrocities that had taken place under that demonic banner became real to her. All through the war years and afterwards, she held onto some romantic view of the Third Reich. That view suddenly crumbled into a stark reality. She lifted her eyes, for some reason, they were blurred by tears.

"This is it Isolde... finally."

"Yes, Richard."

"You know, I used to be in the SS... I was SS-Obersturmbannführer... I was called Kraus back then, a confidant of Himmler."

Isolde took his hand.

"Yes, I know Siegfried."

"It's the confusion... the darkness."

He stood, pulling free of Isolde, he began to laugh.

"There's one thing I need to do, then I'll be free."

He struggled back through the snow to the Land Rover and found the hat box. Walking back towards Isolde, he delved his hands inside and withdrew the statue.

"Christ, it burns Isolde, it burns my flesh and my mind."

With a scream of anguish, he made his way to the edge and hurled the Sang Khor Buddha high into the air over a deep fissure.

"Back to hell, you demon!" he screamed, his body shaking.

Isolde came and stood by him, she held him, and they sank together, down to their knees in the snow.

SS-Obersturmbannführer Kraus was sobbing uncontrollably. Isolde rocked him like a child. Through her tears, as she lifted her head, she could see a huge figure standing on the ridge top.

The massive creature was cradling the limp infant. Its eyes fixed on the two people. It lay the infant carefully on the snow, and then with a snarl of anger hurtled down the slope, crashing into the Land Rover. Its hands gripped the underside of the vehicle and with a groan of effort, it wrenched the Land Rover onto its side, and then, turned its face to the two people.

Richard looked up, his eyes wide in astonishment.

Now was the time for Graham to dig deep into his inner strength, he knew there were only moments before the ledge would completely collapse. He took a deep breath, pushing through the violence of pain, he heaved his arm up. The biceps contracting his arm drew Aadarsh up, inch by inch. But, he could not clear the ledge. He dared not let go with his other arm that was curled round the rock behind him. With a massive effort, he heaved again. His grip on Aadarsh's wrist was starting to weaken, his palm was becoming sweaty and slippery. There is only so much that any man can do, even the finest of men, but he didn't let go. He did not let go.

With a last effort, he screamed as he called all his inner strength to the task and heaved again against Aadarsh's weight. But the brave and noble Aadarsh slipped from his grip and fell silently into the void. Graham dragged himself to the edge, he could not prevent himself from looking over, and caught a glimpse of his dear friend tumbling away, into the vacant whiteness. Dancing in the air, a marionette with no strings.

Graham slithered down to where the Jeep was waiting. He lay on his back, staring up at the infinite sky for a long time... until his chest convulsed, and he gasped and sobbed. If not for Loretta, he might never have moved. What better place to sleep one's final sleep, than up in the crystal mountains with the gods of ice to sing you to your rest. There was still Loretta, a formidable reason to live.

He had to do something to mark Aadarsh's loss, but he had so little. Taking the old map, that lay open on the driver's seat, he folded it carefully and climbed painfully back up to the ledge. He wedged it under a rock... it may still be there today, if the winds have been kind.

"Aadarsh, you marvellous fellow... you might need this to find your way home," he said, and suddenly overcome by emotion he returned to the Jeep.

He had to find Loretta now, or this whole enterprise would be for nothing. The Jeep started without a murmur, as if it had not yet realised that its owner was no longer there. With grim determination, alone in the desolate magnificence, he drove on. He knew where the aircraft now lay and slowly picked his way until he could get a better view. Approaching from a different direction than the Americans had taken, Graham eased the Jeep down a broad slope of snow, then picked his slithering way across a slip of loose rock that rested at a steep angle to his direction of travel. Finally, the Jeep found footing on the same slide of land where the Beechcraft lay slumped on its belly. The wings and top of the fuselage were white with a deep covering of snow.

"My god, they must have crashed..." Graham mumbled as the Jeep approached the aircraft.

He turned off the engine, an oppressive silence fell over him. All the sounds were muffled by the fall of snow. He made his way to the fuselage and looked inside. It was empty, no sign that anyone had been hurt in the crash.

Which way did they go?

It was obvious that they would be heading towards the Junker's crash site. He walked across to a small frozen creek that led down towards the forbidden Yeti lands. He stood still as the wind swirled the clumping snow around him. He could see Loretta's smiling face in his mind's eye, in a sudden desperation he called out into the desolate whiteness:

"Loretta... Loretta..."

But, there was no reply.

It was starting to get dark, and Graham had not slept in thirty hours. He decided to huddle inside the aircraft until morning. Parking the Jeep in the shelter that the bright yellow aircraft offered, he clambered aboard with not one, but two sleeping bags to keep him warm.

As dawn broke, the sky was clearing, once again the magnificent mountain peaks could be seen shimmering against the sky. Beyond the rocky outcrops was a great expanse of snowy whiteness, still and sparkling, it clothed the terraces and slopes of the silent landscape. It might have been an uplifting view, but Graham contemplated crossing the plateau above the Yeti valley with a growing sense of pessimism.

After an hour of difficult going, he edged the Jeep down a narrow-rutted course by a looming mass of shadowing rock, until the space eventually opened up onto a slope of snow-covered loose rubble. He drove carefully across the slippery ground, pulling to a halt near the edge of a precipitous drop. With the engine off, it was still and quiet, a murmur of wind, nothing more. Taking the binoculars, Graham eased himself from his seat; the canvas top kept the wind at bay but did little to keep the interior of the Jeep warm. A gust of icy wind across his shoulders made him shiver, as he stretched his back and blew warming air onto his fingers. Stamping his feet to get the circulation flowing, he was becoming increasingly aware the discomfort from his injuries had not been helped by his struggle on the ledge.

Looking up, he could see a large bird circling effortlessly against the early morning sky. It was an image of freedom. Not just freedom against confinement, but a freedom of spirit, untroubled by the burdens that men must shoulder. Graham wondered if he might want to trade places with the soaring creature, but the answer was obvious... of course not, he could soar too. Not like an eagle, dicing with the currents of the air, but on the wings of his imagination, on the wings of his love for Loretta. He was about to turn back, when some sixth sense or maybe something half seen in the corner of his eye, made him look again. It had been there all the time... below him, caught in the turbulent air, a flash of red. Lifting up the binoculars, he dialled in the focus until the image became crisp.

"My god, it's a silk scarf... the scarf I bought her..."

It took him twenty minutes to navigate a path down to where he had seen the bright red scarf dancing in the wind. The last few yards were difficult as he crossed some large awkwardly laying slabs of icy rock. Finally, the Jeep drew up almost next to Ed's snow-covered body. Graham was shocked by the unexpected sight, he made his way across and kneeled down, brushing the snow from the man's face. He looked to be at peace in his icy bed, but this was far from what Graham had hoped to find.

"Oh Ed... not you as well... how many men have I brought to their death?"

Graham lifted his eyes towards the red scarf, his thoughts suddenly and urgently rushing back to Loretta. He stood and at his best speed, ran painfully to the canvas structure and lifted the flap.

He saw two figures huddled together; they were holding onto life by filament thin threads. Almost taken by the cold. Loretta opened her eyes as the daylight flooded into the tiny canvas lair and Graham kneeled down next to her.

"I saw your flag..." he said.

"I knew you'd come darling," Loretta said, through the thick hoarseness of her whispered voice.

Graham took her hand... it was icy cold, her delicate fingers blue.

"Hush, don't talk... I'm here now, you're safe with me."

"Am I...?"

Graham looked across to Mike, he was deathly pale, his eyes closed, but there was still misty breath coming from his lips.

"Hold on old man..." he said before turning back to Loretta.

She managed to smile at him, her breath coming in slow white gasps.

"I knew you'd come..." she said, "Because there's something I still haven't quite managed to say to you."

"What's that?"

"A simple thing... just that I love you... I love you."

Her eyes closed, as if the effort of speaking had been too much for her.

Graham bent closer and kissed her frozen, chapped lips... something told him that her life was slipping away, and he could not let that happen... not now. It was clear what he had to do, he went back to the Jeep for Aadarsh's little alcohol fuelled stove. Back inside the tent, he lit the stove and put some of Kamala's soup on to heat. Kamala...He thought what on earth can I tell her... God what a mess.

As the soup warmed, he wrapped them up in the sleeping bags and tried to rub warmth into Loretta's hands.

Within an hour, the two were showing signs of revival. A long way from being fully recovered, but their survival now seemed assured. They drank the warming soup and ate sweetened rolls and then hunks of tangy goat cheese that Aadarsh had packed.

"They told me you had been killed by a truck," Loretta said. "I couldn't let myself believe that."

"I was hit by a truck, but as you see, I'm fine."

"The bruises on your face tell a different story darling, and I have seen the way you move... I'm not sure you're fine at all."

"It's just a few bruises; I'll be back to normal in a couple of days."

"I hope so..."

Loretta took a mouthful of the soup and hesitated for a long moment.

"Did you see Ed out there?" Loretta whispered, her voice still hoarse.

Graham nodded.

"It was Kraus... he shot him... he shot all three of us and left us here to die... took the Land Rover and left us with nothing."

"He shot you! Are you, all right?" Graham asked with a sudden trace of panic in his voice.

"I'm fine, my wound was superficial... I was already exhausted by the load they made me carry... I must have fainted from the shock of the bullet."

Her eyes welled with tears.

"It could have been fatal if his aim was taken with more care... I have no doubt that he meant to kill me, as if killing me was such a trivial thing, like treading on a beetle."

Graham put his arms round her.

"Your life is far from a trivial thing, dear heart."

"Thank you, for saying that Graham... I was wondering... did you come out here all on your own?"

Graham hesitated, more bad news at a time like this, was not what Loretta needed. Loretta saw the anguish in Graham's face...

"What? Tell me... is it Aadarsh? What happened?"

"Don't think about that now..."

He held her in a strong embrace, but she would not be satisfied until she knew the truth.

"Graham, look at me... whatever it is, I can take it... is he dead?"

Graham simply nodded.

"Oh no, what happened? You can tell me."

"He died trying to help us, it was an accident. He went over a ledge, I think he was unconscious when he fell. I'll fill in the details when I feel up to it, don't press me just now dear heart."

"No, of course not, you must be devastated." Graham nodded and wiped his arm across his eyes.

"This was your friend?" Mike said.

"He was a man in a million... so, how about you, Mike?"

"Loretta patched me up pretty well... I thought we were all goners for a while back there."

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this Mike... you and Ed, and Aadarsh."

"No buddy, we were glad to do it, don't you go blaming yourself... I'd do it again at the drop of a hat."

With a catch in his voice he spoke again.

"I know Ed would say the same."

"I'm so sorry about Ed, you two chaps are simply, heroes..." Graham said.

"There's only one person who can be blamed for all this... that damned Nazi, Kraus. I'm going to get him Graham, if it's the last thing I do."

"Are you sure it's worth it?"

"It is to me Graham... it is to me."

Graham nodded, he knew exactly how Mike felt, because the same raw emotions ran through his own body.

"We should really start back..." Graham said. "This is no place to spend another night."

"Aadarsh told me that the valley has been left undisturbed, sort of sacred... for those who have retreated here."

"You mean, the Yeti?" Loretta said.

"I now you're sceptical..."

"I'm not so sure any more, seems to me that anything is possible in these strange mountains."

"We'll pack up and make our way back... this is no time to think about chasing after Kraus, let him have the gold, for all the good it will do him. If we head for where the textile agents found the Junkers, we can follow down to the warmer valley, and the journey back to Kathmandu should be relatively straightforward."

"I guess you're right Graham," Mike said. "There will be time enough to hunt that bastard down, when I'm back on my feet. Will there be room for Ed? I can't bear the thought of leaving him out here."

"I have no intention of leaving him behind Mike, I'll make room."

He thought of Aadarsh lying out there, somewhere alone, unrecoverable, and had to turn away.

Once the Jeep had been rearranged, Loretta made her way slowly back to the makeshift tent that had almost certainly saved their lives. She stretched up, feeling the soreness of Richard's bullet wound against her side. With a slight wince she removed the silk scarf, it was a modest possession, but more precious to her than any gold, she folded it carefully and slid it into a pocket.

"I couldn't have left it," she said. "It's the one you bought me... do you remember?"

"Of course, I remember."

He held out his hand to her and they made their way slowly back to the Jeep. Graham had already wrapped Ed's body in a canvas ground sheet and it lay on the rear tray, on a bed of sleeping bags.

Mike, whose leg wound made moving difficult, took his place in the front seat next to Graham. Loretta was bundled into a sleeping bag in the rear of the Jeep. Graham had a good idea where the Junkers might be and slowly picked his way towards the spot, carefully avoiding jolting his fragile passengers and his own aching frame.

By the late morning, they had reached a slope with a sweeping view across the foothills. It was a relatively smooth descent down, but there was no trace of a Junkers 52 to be seen. Mike scanned across the snowy landscape, looking for any signs of Kraus, if he was there, he would need approaching with caution. The sun cast shadows across the blue tinted snow, but his eyes fell onto something that did not belong to the natural landscape.

"I think it's the Land Rover," Mike said. "Looks like it's been wrecked."

The vehicle seemed to be resting on its side, there was no evidence of a crash. It looked almost as if it had been simply pushed over.

"How did it end up like that?"

"I'll see if I can find a way down there," Graham said. "Seems an easy enough place to reach."

"Just keep a lookout for Kraus... I wish I had a gun," Mike said.

Before they had reached the overturned Land Rover, they could see a darkened mass of deep red staining on the snow. It was just a foretaste of what they would discover. As Graham edged them closer, the remains of two severely mutilated bodies were revealed to their shocked eyes.

"Stay here, I'll go and take a look," Graham said.

He made his way to the blood-stained patch of snow. What met his eyes was hard to take, even for a hardened journalist who had seen many shocking sights. I'm not sure even Kraus deserved this Graham thought. He turned back to look at his companions, but ignoring his words, Loretta had already followed him. She held out her arms for Graham.

"My god, what has happened here?"

"I think it's lucky you were not with them."

Unwilling to miss out on the unfolding events, Mike was also limping slowly and painfully to the scene of carnage.

"That wasn't caused by any car wreck," Mike said, as his eyes fell on the eviscerated remains.

It looked like a frenzied attack, wrought by some ferocious beast or possibly a pack of wolves. Richard's face, what was left of it, was staring up unseeing into the sky, as if he were astonished at what had befallen him.

"It's Kraus and Mosley," Loretta said. "No doubt about it."

Finally, she turned her face away from the scene of horror, with her hand clutched over her mouth.

"Looks like they were digging in the snow... before... before this happened," Mike said.

He hobbled up the few yards to the excavations.

"My god, it's a tail-plane... there's an insignia... a swastika... this is it. There's no sign of any treasure, but they definitely found the Junkers."

"It did them little good," Graham said with a deep sigh.

Mike limped back slowly to his companions. He was carrying something in his arms.

"What's that?" Graham said.

"Not sure... looks like a hat box... nicely made."

He handed the leather box to Graham.

"It has some initials embossed in gold: RSS."

"Richard S Smythe?" Loretta suggested.

"That sounds about right... I suppose there was no sign of a hat?"

"No... nothing. Seems like a strange thing to bring out here."

"You're not suggesting that Kraus was in any way normal, are you Mike?" Loretta said.

"I guess not... leastways, he got what was coming to him, and how."

Graham turned to Loretta, his voice low.

"Have you noticed the footprints?"

"I did... I was a little reluctant to say anything... with the bodies and everything."

"Well, we might as well take a look," Graham said.

They walked closer. The snow had been churned up round where the bodies lay, but there were clear prints in the snow leading to and from the area. Loretta knelt down.

"These footprints are massive... of course, at a moment like this, I don't have my camera."

"Maybe that's all for the better," Graham said.

Loretta looked up into his eyes and thought she understood what he meant.

"There are several distinct sets; I'd say two or three individuals at least, maybe more."

She measured the size of one of the more clearly defined prints with her hand.

"My god, these must be eighteen inches long... that means, that if they were men, they'd have to be getting on eight feet tall."

"Eight feet..."

"Yes, but, look at them... these are not animal prints, like a bear or something. There are no claws, no pads. No evidence of prehensile function like the great apes... they look flat like..."

"What?"

"Well, they look almost human..."

Loretta stood and took Graham's hand. Then she folded herself into his arms. For the first time since she had fallen into Richard's clutches, she felt there might be a future for her again.

"Graham," she whispered "I don't think I want to be here anymore... take me home, will you?"

"Home?"

"Take me home to London, and marry me."

"If that's what you really want?"

Loretta nodded, and Graham held her in his arms. As he did, a strange sound started from high above them. Clearly related to the terrifying howls they had heard before, this, was different. It was a chanting, voices in unison producing a choral oratorio of deep resonance.

They stood silent, as if they were trespassing in the midst of some arcane sacrament. The voices swelled, drawing resonance from some ancient ancestral memory.

"There's a melody to it Graham... listen... this is a song, a lament. It's almost spiritual."

"I feel it too."

"I think I understand what they are saying... they just want to be left alone... it's, as if, they know that their time is coming to an end. Graham... I think we should be going, we can't stay here."

Loretta's voice was urgent and compelling, as if she had a premonition of something terrible.

They moved back to the Jeep, Mike's limping progress was supported by Graham's shoulder. Once back in the vehicle, they drove down a little way towards the warmer slopes. After crossing maybe half a mile, Graham stopped, and they turned their faces back.

The chanting had become louder, even from their distant position, the song echoed to them across the foothills. It seemed as if more voices had joined in and the song reached up to a swelling climax, a crescendo of emotion that ended suddenly with the onset of a deep rumble like distant thunder.

"They've sung down an avalanche..." Graham called above the growing thunder of crashing snow.

He could see a white turbulent cloud, unstoppable, cascading down the ravine.

"Drive Graham! Drive for your life!"

The huge wall of tumbling snow crashed down from the high slopes like a frozen tsunami. All in its path was buried. The Junkers 52 had seen daylight again for just a brief moment, now lay buried under twenty feet of snow. Close by, were two bloodied bodies, destined to lay side by side, buried for a dark icy eternity.

The avalanche had stopped before it could endanger the Jeep, Graham slowed so that they could have one final look. Getting out of the Jeep, Graham and Loretta held each other. The slope had changed and as the snow settled, a sense of peace seemed to settle with it.

All of them were beyond weary as they contemplated their journey back to Kathmandu.

They had seen things, endured things that few ever would. Their ordeal was still not over as there were people and loved ones to inform of the tragic losses. But, it was a unanimous decision that the Himalayas should be allowed to keep its secrets. This was no place for men, none of them would ever return to the sacred valley. Life would go on for them, different dreams would be fulfilled. Graham pulled Loretta close. Finally daring to think of a future, he stretched his thoughts into the distance and caught a shimmering glimpse of happier times.

"How do you fancy a spring wedding?" he whispered.

Loretta clutched him tightly, she could already feel the warmth of an English spring, the song of the blackbird, the woodland flowers and the lovely May weather.

Unseen by any human, a tall figure stood alone, silhouetted against the setting sun. It stood high above the deeply buried Junkers JU 52. Its arms were held aloft, as a flash of sunlight reflected against the raised juvenile, held high so that its spirit could fly free across the Himalayan landscape. The noble creature cast its eyes with infinite sadness across the land where once his kind had ruled. With the rumble of a deep voice, a large slab of stone was carefully placed on a ridge of frozen snow, where it might mark the place where the infant had died. It was also a place of resignation, the place where they had finally accepted their fate. With a mournful cry, the creature loped away in lengthening strides to join the last few of his kind, who were already disappearing into the gathering snowfall... already ghosts... already becoming a myth.

A wind drew down from the slopes, curling and lifting little dancing flurries of snow up into the sky. The wind carried with it the last futile hopes of a dying species in its mournful growl.

