Treachery in Tibet by John Wilcox Page A

We’ve made improvements here. I reckon I could persuade him to take it on, if I don’t ask the world for it. And, darling, as you know, we don’t need the money.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I have another thought.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘This young fellow I have discovered. The one who came up into the forest with me, chasing the Nagas …’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘We could take him with us. We shall need a servant – dear old 352 is a bit long in the tooth to look after both of us now – and he would be ideal. I understand that, although he was brought up in the south, he is, in fact, Tibetan and speaks the language and knows the mountains. And he is as brave as a lion.’
    ‘Good idea. How much time do we have?’
    Simon consulted Curzon’s letter. ‘No precise date fixed for the beginning of the march into Tibet but he speaks of mid December – only five weeks or so away.’ He read on silently. ‘But he makes the point that, as this is very short notice for me, I could join the expedition a little later, before it penetrates deeply into Tibet. Good. That will give us time to pack up here, for 352 to sail across the Indian Ocean and for me to meet him in Bombay and bring him back here.’
    Alice beamed across at her husband. ‘The three of us off on campaign again, my love? What a refreshing thought. Do we have any champagne left in the cellar? I think we need – and deserve – a drink.’

C HAPTER T HREE
    Just five weeks later, a strange quartet rode wearily into the army camp at Gnatong, some twelve miles over the border into Tibet itself. In the lead rode Simon Fonthill, his rather awkward seat in the saddle reflecting not only the long journey they had just completed but also the fact that he had never been entirely happy on horseback. He wore a wide-brimmed canvas hat, a long woollen riding coat and jackboots. Alice rode behind, equally muffled against the cold and her swaying body moving sympathetically with that of her mount. Then came Sunil, riding a small pony, his black head protruding from the top of what appeared to be a blanket and his face alive with curiosity as he took in the strange sights all around him.
    Bringing up the rear rode 352 Jenkins, leading their laden pack mule. It was clear that he was quite at home on horseback, although he cut a strange figure, for he was obviously short – perhaps some5ft 4 ins in height – but looking almost as wide as he was tall. It was equally obvious, however, that he was immensely powerful. Even so, it had become clear to Simon and Alice, meeting him again after almost two years, that this was a slimmer and undoubtedly older Jenkins, for slivers of silver showed through the jet-black hair that stood up from his skull like a broom bottom. He now looked around him with contempt curling the great black moustache that spread under his nose like some dead rodent.
    ‘Blimey,’ he called out, ‘this place is nothin’ but a transit camp, look you. If it’s a town it’s one without ’ouses. Nothin’ but army tents. Like Aldershot without the bleedin’ glass ’ouse, see. Oh, sorry for the language, Miss Alice. Bein’ on me own ’as made me a bit rough, see.’
    Alice sighed. ‘If you think that your bleedin’ bad language is going to shock me, 352, after all these years, then you are mistaken. I am no debutante sitting on the stairs at the hunt ball – and anyway, I was always an army daughter, if you remember.’ Then her frown turned into a smile as she turned round to look at him. ‘But, bad language or not, it’s wonderful to be with you again, 352. It really is.’
    Jenkins looked abashed. Unaccustomed to compliments, he nodded and glared upwards along the trail that wound out of the little settlement to where it climbed into the mountain vastness ahead of them: the first outriders of Tibet’s natural defences.
    Fonthill turned back to them and jerked his head over his shoulder. ‘That’s the Jelep La,’ he called. ‘The pass is