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Year of the Tiger
Jack Higgins
In 1959, British agents masterminded the escape of the Dalai Lama from Tibet. Three years later, Paul Chavasse is doing it all over again…A vitally important scientist, holding intelligence that could shift the balance of world power, is being held in China.British secret agent Paul Chavasse, responsible for extracting the Dalai Lama from under Chinese noses, is the perfect man to slip through the border, locate the scientist and bring him back to the West.But Chavasse’s nerve, stamina and loyalties will all be tested as he finds the Chinese are reluctant to let their asset go without a fight…
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u20c876c8-d94d-598b-b4cf-7b2ddf29e43e)
Publisher’s Note (#u6973e124-7d8d-5551-a158-93f740707510)
Map (#u22c7ad48-8ce3-5c4c-9689-59ba4a6fea73)
London—1995 (#ufcc35fbb-d2fa-5565-b888-2f65d27aa3a2)
Chapter 1 (#u36922a7e-143f-5df3-98a9-479279619deb)
Tibet—1959 (#uee90514f-22e7-5ca6-846f-36f3d77b2218)
Chapter 2 (#ub85f9039-ee68-59d7-8c46-c147c676c06e)
London—1962 (#ubd6b5a3f-1612-5768-8418-72216682fd8b)
Chapter 3 (#u2237c65d-2b8a-528e-86c2-68c34462d0b7)
India—Tibet 1962 (#u8c1fa2c5-baa1-54db-83a6-7f9a28c749f1)
Chapter 4 (#ua715c59f-8b5b-5c6f-984e-2b699cf8cd0d)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
London—1995 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Jack Higgins (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PUBLISHER’S NOTE (#ulink_0e80e7a9-b5e0-51e2-8666-66a93a320577)
YEAR OF THE TIGER was first published by Abelard Shulman in 1963 under the name of Martin Fallon. The book went out of print very shortly after first publication, was never reprinted and never appeared in paperback.
The author was in fact Jack Higgins, Martin Fallon being one of the pseudonyms he used during his early writing days.
This edition of YEAR OF THE TIGER was revised and updated by Jack Higgins in 1994, and we are delighted to be re-publishing it in 2013 to a brand new audience of thriller fans.
In March 1959, after the failure of the revolt by the Tibetan people against their Chinese masters, the Dalai Lama escaped to India with the help of the CIA and British Intelligence sources. A remarkable affair indeed. But three years later the British masterminded an even more remarkable coup. It went something like this …
LONDON—1995 (#ulink_3cc05b6f-a8bd-54c6-bcac-58619d7c2c8a)
1 (#ulink_7d46b8a4-a5ed-5ba7-9de9-1924f53a4bd3)
They were closer now, he could hear the savage barking of the dogs, the voices of his pursuers calling to each other, firing at random as he ran headlong through the trees. There was a chance, not much of a one, if he could reach the river and cross to the other side. Another country and home free. He slipped and fell, rolling over and over as the ground sloped. As he got to his feet there was an enormous clap of thunder, the skies opened and rain fell in a great curtain, blanketing everything. No scent for the dogs now and he started to run again, laughing wildly, aware of the sound of the river, very close now, knowing that he’d won again this damned game he’d been playing for so long. He burst out of the trees and found himself on a bluff, the river swollen and angry below him, mist shrouding the other side. It was at that moment that another volley of rifle shots rang out. A solid hammerlike blow on his left shoulder punched him forward over the edge of the bluff into the swirling waters. He seemed to go down for ever, then started to kick desperately, trying for the surface, a surface that wasn’t there. He was choking now, at the final end of things and still fighting and, suddenly, he broke through and took a great lungful of air.
Paul Chavasse came awake with a start. The room was in darkness. He was sprawled in one of the two great armchairs which stood on either side of the fireplace and the fire was low, the only light in the room on a dark November evening. The file from the Bureau which he’d been reading was on the floor at his feet. He must have dozed, and then the dream. Strange, he hadn’t had that one in years, but it was real enough and his hand instinctively touched his left shoulder where the old scar was still plain to see. A long time ago.
The clock on the mantelshelf chimed six times and he got to his feet and reached to turn on the lamp on the table beside him. He hesitated, remembering, and moved to the windows where the curtains were still open. He peered out into St Martin’s Square.
It was as quiet as usual, the gardens and trees in the centre touched by fog. There was a light on at the windows of the church opposite, the usual number of parked cars. Then there was a movement in the shadows by the garden railings opposite the house and the woman was there again. Old-fashioned trilby hat, what looked like a Burberry trenchcoat and a skirt beneath, reaching to the ankles. She stood there in the light of a lamp, looking across at the house, then slipped back into the shadows, an elusive figure.
Chavasse drew the curtains, switched on the other lights and picked up the phone. He called through to the basement flat where Earl Jackson, his official driver from the Ministry of Defence, lived with his wife, Lucy, who acted as cook and housekeeper.
Jackson’s voice had a hard cockney edge to it. ‘What can I do for you, Sir Paul?’
Chavasse winced. He still couldn’t get used to the title, which was hardly surprising for he had only been knighted by the Queen a week previously.
‘Listen, Earl, there’s a strange woman lurking around in the shadows opposite. Wears an old trilby hat, Burberry, skirt down to the ankles. Could be a bag lady, but it’s the third night running that I’ve seen her. Somehow I get a funny feeling.’
‘That’s why you’re still here,’ Jackson said. ‘I’ll check her out.’
‘Take it easy,’ Chavasse told him. ‘Send Lucy to the corner shop and she can have a look on the way. Less obvious.’
‘Leave it with me,’ Jackson said. ‘Are we going out?’
‘Well, I need to eat. Let’s make it the Garrick. I’ll be ready at seven.’
He shaved first, an old habit, showered afterwards then towelled himself vigorously. He paused to touch the scar of the bullet wound on the left shoulder, then ran his finger across a similar scar on his chest on the right side with the six-inch line below it where a very dangerous young woman had tried to gut him with a knife more years ago than he cared to remember.
He slipped the towel round his waist and combed his hair, white at the temples now but still dark, though not as dark as the eyes in a handsome, rather aristocratic face. The high cheek bones were a legacy of his Breton father, the slightly world-weary look of a man who had seen too much of the dark side of life.
‘Still, not bad for sixty-five, old stick,’ he said softly. ‘Only, what comes now? D-Day tomorrow!’
It was his private and not very funny joke, for the D stood for disposal and on the following day he was retiring from the Bureau, that most elusive of all sections of the British Secret Intelligence Service. Forty years, twenty as a field agent, another twenty as Chief after his old boss had died, not that it had turned out to be the usual kind of desk job, not with the Irish troubles.
So now it was all over, he told himself as he dressed quickly in soft white shirt and an easy-fitting suit by Armani in dark blue. No more passion, no more action by night, he thought as he knotted his tie. And no woman in his life to fall back on, although there had always been plenty available. The trouble was that the only one he had truly loved had died far too early and far too brutally. Even the revenge he had exacted had failed to take away the bitter taste. Yes, there had been women in his life, but never another he had wanted to marry.
He went into the drawing-room and picked up the phone. ‘I’m on my way, Earl.’
‘I’ll be ready, Sir Paul.’
Chavasse pulled on a navy blue raincoat, switched off the lights and went downstairs.
Earl Jackson was black, a fact which had given him no trouble at all with the more racist elements in the British Army, where he had served in both 1 Para and the SAS, mainly because he was six feet four in height and still a trim fifteen stone in spite of being forty-four years of age. He’d earned a Distinguished Conduct Medal in the Falklands and he and his wife, Lucy, had been with Chavasse for ten years now.
It had started to rain and when Chavasse opened the front door he found him waiting with a raised umbrella, very smart in grey uniform and peaked cap. As they went down the steps to the Jaguar, Chavasse glanced across at the garden. There was a slight movement in the shadows.
‘Still there?’
‘He certainly is,’ Jackson told him and opened the passenger door at the front, for Chavasse always sat next to him.
‘You mean it’s a man?’ Chavasse said as he got in.
Jackson shut the door, put the umbrella down, went round the car and slid behind the wheel. ‘But no ordinary man.’ He started the engine. ‘Lucy says he’s sort of Chinese.’
Jackson drove away and Chavasse said, ‘What does she mean by sort of?’
‘She says there’s something different about him. Not really like any Chinese she knows and quite different from those Thais and Koreans you see in their restaurants.’
Chavasse nodded. ‘And the skirt?’
‘She just got a glimpse while he was under the lamp. She said it seemed like some sort of robe and as far as she could make out in the bad light it was a kind of yellow colour.’
Chavasse frowned. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
‘You want me to do something about it, Sir Paul?’
‘Not for the moment,’ Chavasse told him, ‘and stop calling me Sir Paul. We’ve been together too long.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Earl Jackson smiled. ‘But you’ll be wasting your time with Lucy. She just loves it.’ And he turned out on to the main road and picked up speed.
The porter at the Garrick, that most exclusive of London clubs, greeted him with a smile and took his coat.
‘Nice to see you, Sir Paul.’ He came out with the title as if he’d been doing it all his life.
Chavasse gave up and mounted the majestic staircase with its stunning collection of oil paintings and went into the bar. A couple of ageing gentlemen sat in the corner talking quietly, but otherwise the place was empty.
‘Good evening, Sir Paul,’ the barman said. There it was again. ‘Your usual?’
‘Why not?’
Chavasse went and sat in a corner, took out his old silver case and lit a cigarette while the barman brought a bottle of Bollinger RD champagne, opened it and poured. Chavasse tried it, nodded his satisfaction and the barman topped up the glass and retreated.
Chavasse toasted himself. ‘Well, here’s to you, old stick,’ he murmured. ‘But what comes next, that’s the thing?’
He emptied the glass rather quickly, refilled it and sat back. At that moment a young man entered, paused, glancing around, then approached him.
‘Sir Paul Chavasse? Terry Williams of the Prime Minister’s office.’
‘You must be new,’ Chavasse said. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘Very new, sir. We were trying to get hold of you and your housekeeper told us you would be here.’
‘Sounds urgent,’ Chavasse said.
‘The Prime Minister wanted a word, that’s the thing.’
Chavasse frowned. ‘Do you know what it’s about?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Williams smiled cheerfully. ‘But I’m sure he’ll tell you himself. He’s on the way up.’
A moment later and John Major, the British Prime Minister, entered the bar.
His personal detective was behind him and waited by the entrance. The Prime Minister was in evening dress and smiled as he came forward and held out his hand.
‘Good to see you, Paul.’
Williams withdrew discreetly and Chavasse said, ‘Thank God you didn’t say Sir Paul. I’m damned if I can get used to it.’
John Major sat down. ‘You got used to being called the Chief for the past twenty years.’
‘Yes, well, that was carrying on a Bureau tradition set up by my predecessor,’ Chavasse told him. ‘Can I offer you a glass of champagne?’
‘No thanks. The reason for my rather glamorous appearance is that I’m on my way to a fund-raising affair at the Dorchester and they’ll try and thrust enough glasses of champagne on to me there.’
Chavasse raised his glass and toasted him. ‘Congratulations on your leadership victory, Prime Minister.’
‘Yes, I’m still here,’ Major said. ‘Both of us are.’
‘Not me,’ Chavasse reminded him. ‘Last day tomorrow.’
