Jack Higgins - Chavasse 02 by Year of the Tiger

other hand, he had a hell of a war. Probably worried about taking the hitcher to the well too often.”
    â€œAnd you, Paul.” Ferguson glanced sideways at him. “What about you?”
    â€œYou should know better than to ask a question like that,” Chavasse said. “I go where the Bureau sends me. This is just another job as far as I’m concerned. Perhaps a little tougher than most, but that’s all.”
    â€œBut doesn’t the thought of going in there worry you?” Ferguson persisted.
    â€œSure it does.” Chavasse grinned. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t go.”
    Ferguson turned the car off the highway and they followed a dirt road for several miles. They were moving up through the lowlands, climbing high into grassy meadows, when suddenly they topped a small rise and saw twenty or thirty tents below, beside a small stream.
    It was a peaceful scene, with the smoke of the cooking fires rising straight in the calm air. Several women stood knee-deep in the stream washing clothing, their long woollen shubas tucked into their belts, and barefooted children played a noisy game of hide-and-seek.
    The tents were typically Tibetan and consisted of yak skins sewn together and stretched over a round wickerwork frame which was surrounded by a low wall of stones or turves.
    The camp had a primitive, quiet charm, and Chavasse smiled as a young boy noticed their approach and called to his friends. A moment later, the whole pack of them surged forward, calling excitedly to their mothers down at the stream.
    The women looked up, shading their eyes against the sun, and at that moment a horseman galloped over the crest of a hill fifty or sixty yards away, scattering a group of grazing yaks, and rode down into the camp.
    He wore a long, wide-sleeved robe and sheepskin shuba which left his chest bare to the waist,and knee-length boots of untanned hide that had been dyed green. His hair was coiled into plaits on either side and covered by a conical sheepskin hat. There was a large silver ring in his left ear.
    He reined in his small Tibetan horse, dismounted and came towards them, a strangely medieval figure. He was tall and muscular, and his deeply tanned face was not in the least oriental. His high cheekbones and aquiline nose gave him a definitely aristocratic air and the children, who quickly parted to let him through, ducked their heads in respect as he passed.
    â€œJoro,” Ferguson said. “This is Mr. Chavasse.”
    The Tibetan held out his hand. “I am glad you are here,” he said simply.
    Chavasse was impressed. Joro’s English was excellent, but there was more to it than that. He was a man who would have stood out in any company. He looked intelligent and tough, every inch a leader—not at all the sort of man who would run away from a fight. Chavasse was intrigued.
    They walked a little way out of the camp and sat down on a grassy bank. Chavasse offered Joro a cigarette, which he accepted, and took one himself. As he gave the Tibetan a light, he said, “Ferguson tells me you’re willing to return to Tibet and to help me as much as you can. Why?”
    â€œFor two reasons,” Joro said. “Because Mr. Ferguson has told me that you were one of thosewho helped the Dalai Lama to escape, and because you wish to help Dr. Hoffner.”
    â€œBut why did you leave Tibet in the first place? Were you in trouble?”
    Joro shook his head. “I was not a suspected person, if that’s what you mean. No, Mr. Chavasse. My people are brave, but we can’t fight the Chinese with broadswords and muskets. We need modern rifles and machine guns. I came through the Pangong Tso Pass with gold in the lining of my shuba . I came to buy arms, and Mr. Ferguson has arranged this for me.”
    â€œYou’ll be taking them in with you,” Ferguson said. “It’s all fixed up. Some rifles and
    ammunition, a couple of submachine guns and a box