The avatari, p.10
The Avatari, page 10
‘Isn’t that being a trifle presumptuous?’ he asked tersely.
She answered, unruffled, ‘I did tell you, didn’t I, that I’ve been on this subject for fifteen years? You’re going to need my knowledge of both Roschelli’s texts and the Shambhala myths which, I assure you, are not all from a single source; they are available in many different sets of writings which need to be linked up. She looked at him and flashed a smile. ‘You would like to know about the “Gates” and the “Jhagun”, I suppose?’
Ashton didn’t make any comment. Susan knew the answer. He looked up at Duggy who nodded again.
‘Look, this is all so sudden, I don’t really know what to make of it,’ Ashton admitted finally, running his fingers through his hair. ‘If I do follow it up – and I am not promising I will – the last thing I would want is for whatever we find to wind up in the public domain. In the context of the letter, that was the one point which was paramount – to prevent the wrong people from getting there. I don’t want to start a stampede in that direction.’
Susan looked at him and said without hesitation, ‘I am not looking for that.’
‘Then what’s in it for you?’ he asked gently, but his tone demanded an answer.
‘I am doing it for David.’ She shook her head, looking undecided for the first time. ‘No, I am doing this for myself. I think I blame myself for not having faith in him. Even after all these years, after therapy, I still feel the guilt gnawing at me. I just can’t help myself.’ She gave a half-shudder. ‘I feel that if I do this, maybe I will be able to get over it and put it behind me.’
‘It could be dangerous.’
That was a weak one and he knew it.
‘You really are an Uncle Ash!’ She smiled. Then she leaned forward, her expression serious. ‘Am I in – or not?’
‘It may take some time,’ he said cautiously, ‘and it may just end up being a wild goose chase.’
‘As luck would have it, I can get some leave quickly, without too much fuss. And yes, I am aware that this could all come to naught, but it’s worth a try for me.’
‘Okay, you’re in,’ he said resignedly.
Susan leaned over impulsively and hugged him. She left immediately to fetch her things. They had discussed the matter and decided it was best that she move in to Stiles; it would simplify their logistics. They would go over their plan when she returned.
Susan was back on the afternoon of the following day. That evening, when she and Ashton met Duggy in the library, they observed that he had put up a map of Central Asia. A small board had been set up; alongside were markers for noting points. Trust Duggy to approach all problems with a board or a sand model, Ashton thought. He noticed that his house manager had placed the rucksack they had retrieved from the station’s left-luggage locker on the table, along with Ru San Ko’s letter.
Ashton went over what he had learnt from Tim, referring to the notes he had made in a small diary.
‘By way of preamble,’ he began once they were seated, ‘we may infer from the contents of the letter that there is someone – and someone quite powerful at that – who has got hold of a map leading to this place, this Burqan Qaldun, and must be stopped from getting there.’
‘What could his motive be?’ Susan asked.
‘Well, Tim suggested that one of three reasons might drive anyone to make the journey: to gain immortality, as Kublai Khan is purported to have done, to acquire knowledge of the Kalchakra or to plunder the boundless treasures that are supposed to be held there.’
‘Treasure, that’s for sure,’ Duggy concluded, then looking at Ashton’s face, asked, ‘you don’t think it’s any of the others, do you?’
‘No,’ Ashton replied after a while. ‘You could be right in assuming it’s treasure or, at least, the prospect of finding it. Even if they don’t find any treasure, the prestige associated with the discovery of the place and the financial gains that are likely to follow would be immense – somewhat like stumbling upon King Tut’s chamber.’
‘Bigger, much bigger,’ Susan added, ‘but it’s unlikely to be a legitimate organization with purely academic interests. Despite the way Hollywood portrays that lot, believe me, they don’t have the stomach for the bad stuff.’
‘I have some information which I picked up from the Britannica,’ Duggy said, looking at his pad. ‘The Mar Yul, mentioned in Ru San Ko’s letter, were a breakaway faction of Tibetan royalty who founded a separate kingdom around 800 CE in what was then western Tibet and which, today,’ he pointed to the map, tracing the area with a marker as he spoke, ‘would be in India, in a place called Ladakh. I looked up Ladakh in the encyclopaedia. Its capital is Leh – to which there’s a direct flight from New Delhi.’
‘So we have to go there,’ Susan interjected, ‘because,’ she closed her eyes and repeated from memory, ‘“the key will be found with the dogs at the seat of the Mar Yul’’.’ Without opening her eyes, she continued, ‘The “key” is possibly a special code. “Dogs” baffles me, but I’ll get it, eventually?’
Ashton and Duggy both stared at Susan, then exchanged surreptitious glances, careful not to betray their utter amazement.
‘That’s very good,’ Ashton said after a while. ‘At least we have something to start from. You said, didn’t you, that you knew something about the Jhagun whom we are supposed to contact?’
‘“Jhagun” is the Mongol word for a unit of hundred soldiers,’ Susan answered. ‘It is said that the magical Tibetan kingdom of Shambhala is surrounded by an impenetrable ring of mountains. The kingdom’s outer perimeter is patrolled by warriors or “guardians” to prevent undesirables from gaining access. The guardians could be the Jhagun.’
‘If Mongols are guarding Shambhala, it could mean that Kublai Khan did actually get there!’ Duggy said animatedly. ‘You said it was a covenant?’
‘Do you have any documented references for that?’ Ashton asked in a voice devoid of expression, turning to look at Susan.
She looked amused. ‘I can see the old Cambridge training surfacing, Henry,’ she quipped. ‘There are references to the guardians in the Zhang Zhung texts, which contain the Bon description of what the Tibetans came to call Shambhala. These texts were first translated into Tibetan in the eighth century CE and are probably many centuries older. The “Gates” are also mentioned in the texts; there are supposed to be only four such gates or entry points, one in each cardinal direction. There’s another thing we need to consider,’ she said, pausing for a moment, then adding, ‘going purely by the myth, that is.’
‘There seems to be no other source, anyway,’ Ashton said, shaking his head. ‘What does the myth say about the gates?’
‘If,’ she replied, ‘we go by the myth – and the myth alone – the four gates to Shambhala are apparently open only at the time of the nyida. In other words, when the sun or nyima and the moon or dawa are equal at the time of the equinox.’
‘This sounds more and more like an Indiana Jones movie,’ Ashton remarked wryly.
‘It should,’ Susan retorted. ‘You are, after all, searching for the mythical kingdom of Shambhala!’
‘So from what I have gathered, we have to go through the “gates” at the equinox, which is about a month and half from now, and contact this Jhagun to prevent the bandits from getting to Shambhala,’ Duggy concluded, bringing the focus back to Susan’s observation on the equinox.
‘That’s it,’ she said with a nod.
‘So,’ Ashton said, lighting a cigarette, ‘it seems we need to go to Ladakh and find this “key” which the letter mentions.’
‘Even if we do find it,’ Susan reminded him, ‘it will make no sense until we find the map.’
‘Well, that’s true.’ Ashton paused, giving the matter some thought. ‘I give up,’ he sighed, shaking his head. ‘So what do we do?’
‘Follow the Wando lead – the US Army major who gave the monastery the gold piece. That was probably the map. If that doesn’t work, we head for your monastery.’
Ashton nodded. Both of them knew that either way it would be like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack.
Susan picked up the rucksack from the table and began examining it.
‘Major Wando handed this over to the monastery, along with the gold piece,’ Duggy explained to her. He turned to Ashton and said, ‘By the way, I called Brigadier Brandt-Douglas.’
Brandt-Douglas was the British military attaché in Washington and an officer of the regiment.
‘Why?’ Ashton enquired. ‘Whatever for?’
‘To check out this JC Wando.’
‘He must have been quite surprised.’
‘Well,’ Duggy replied, ‘he was quite happy to hear from me. We chatted about the regiment and he asked about you.’
‘Did you tell him why you required the information?’
‘I told him that you were seeing a lady who claimed to be a relation of JC Wando and you wanted to check out her credentials.’
‘Sergeant!’ Ashton exclaimed and noticed that Susan was grinning.
‘I told him we had found something which bore Wando’s name and wanted to give it back to him,’ Duggy said placidly with a straight face.
‘Did you manage to get anything?’
‘A great deal, in fact.’ Duggy took out a long fax from a file he had placed on the table. ‘I’ll cover the main points. Jason Charleton Wando, Major, US Marines. Killed in action, Mekong River, 1966.’ He paused, scanned the next few lines and said, ‘Father, Ralph C. Wando, Junior Daytona, Texas. ’ He read on, ‘The major was single. Only other sibling, Josh Wando, brother.’
Duggy waited for the information to sink in and continued, ‘Brigadier Brandt-Douglas gave me the number to the Ralph C. Wando Foundation in Daytona, Texas. It seems they’re a big noise there. I tried the number and got through to a friendly old lady who, though most helpful, was awfully chatty.’
Duggy coughed delicately into a handkerchief. ‘The grandfather, Ralph Senior, an explorer of sorts, had accompanied Sven Hedin, the Swedish explorer, on an expedition to India, Tibet and China in the 1930s to search for Mount Kailash, the abode of the Hindu god Shiva. He died there of mountain sickness.’
‘I told you!’ Susan exclaimed excitedly. ‘Members of an expedition were supposed to have found a map to Shambhala.’
Henry leaned back in his chair and let out an expletive under his breath. ‘So we finally got the connection!’ he exclaimed.
Duggy got up and approached the board. ‘That would be here,’ he said, drawing a circle over a general area with the marker. ‘So what we are looking at now is this: Ralph Sr picked up this map while on his expedition.’
‘We might actually be on to something. Anyone left from the original expedition?’ Henry asked hopefully.
‘Not that the lady at the foundation knew of.’
‘It’s still worth checking out. It’s the only lead we have,’ Susan said.
Ashton thought about that. ‘Yes, but we can’t exactly do that long distance, can we? We need to go there.’
The other two nodded.
‘Okay, now that we have discussed what we have, we might as well decide if we need to take anyone else on the team,’ Duggy said, looking at Ashton.
The two men had discussed the issue earlier and tentatively decided they would need at least two more on board.
Duggy got up and began scribbling on the white board:
Afghanistan Pakistan Ladakh Tibet (China)
Pushto? Urdu? Tibetan (Chinese)?
Mountaineer? Doctor? Archaeologist (Far East)?
‘We’ve got one already,’ he stated, ticking off ‘Archaeologist’ on the board with a nod in Susan’s direction.
‘Have you shortlisted any?’ Ashton asked, knowing that he would have done so.
Duggy read out some names from a writing pad while jotting them down on the board. He ticked one and said, ‘I’d go for him.’
‘I know that name,’ Ashton said immediately. ‘But if what I’ve heard is true, he’s quite a fellow. Also, much too young. The story goes, though, that he did well at the beach at Goose Green.’
‘That’s what Kamal Chettri told me.’
‘All right.’ Ashton said, then asked, ‘Where is he these days?’
‘The grapevine says, in Zambia, fighting the Angolan War.’
‘Who is going to get him?’ Susan spoke up now, sounding eager, ready to start off immediately.
The men glanced at each other again.
‘I will,’ Ashton volunteered. ‘I’m the only one who can bring him in. Meanwhile, the two of you could go to Daytona – for whatever it’s worth.’
CHAPTER 8
Angola Border, Zambia
AUGUST 1986
The six-seater Cessna touched down with a bump on the rough airstrip which appeared to have suddenly flown up to meet it. They had been flying due north for roughly an hour from Livingstone, following the Zambezi upriver from Victoria Falls, and had crossed miles of jungle and bush country. Twenty minutes earlier, Ashton had looked down at a tributary flowing in from the west and guessed they must be close to the Angolan border. With his big frame cramped in the small seating space, he would be glad for the opportunity to get up.
He wasn’t certain he would find the man they were trying to recruit. This was his last known address and going by the man’s reputation, it was quite likely that he had moved on. The response in Livingstone where, thankfully, there was an international airport, had not been terribly encouraging. Most of the tour guides and touts had not even heard of the place and the only one who seemed to have had grimaced before saying, ‘Closed down long ago, bwana. Nobody goes there. No animals to be seen. All eaten by Angolan fighters. Now if you want real safari experience, I get you very good deal.’
The smiling man with the dreadlocks at Livingstone airport couldn’t have imagined that this was good news for Ashton. At least the Lone Baobab Lodge existed. And if the Angolan War had touched it, their man would be there.
The airplane churned up a cloud of dust, shuddering as it taxied down the strip and lost speed. As Ashton reached behind to pick up his bag, his eyes caught a movement outside the window. He paused to check out what it was and stared, wide-eyed, at a herd of giraffe gazing placidly at the airplane. He shook his head in disbelief. Twelve hours ago, he had been boarding a flight after winding his way through London smog. This was another world.
‘Good sight, eh, bwana?’ a voice said. ‘You will see lots of them. It’s the dry season and they are close to the river.’
Ashton turned and nodded to the co-pilot who had just spoken to him. The man’s good-natured grin sparkled white against his dark, gleaming face. Having introduced himself as Happy Watambe, this cheerful, chatty Zambian had also doubled up as a steward and served drinks during the flight, taking it upon himself to do most of the talking as well. The pilot, on the other hand, a taciturn old white man who kept grimacing as he pulled on a hip flask, had not uttered a word throughout the flight. His landlord from the hotel in Livingstone where he stayed had managed to get him this flight, but not before first checking with Ashton if he was particular about the pilot’s licence. When Ashton had first set eyes on the man and the beat-up plane at the airfield, he was assailed by doubt, but there was not much choice; this was the only plane which would fly to the border. There was a war on and no one was really sure where the warring camps would be from one day to the next. Anyway, the deal was that after the passenger disembarked at the designated spot, the plane would take off. No waiting. Ashton braced himself as the pilot, who had brought the plane almost to the end of the strip, wheeled around in a tight arc. The propellers were still running.
‘You want to get off?’ Happy asked Ashton, opening the hatch door and preparing to pull down the ladder.
Ashton could see the pilot squinting through the glass and looking into the bush. The man glanced over his shoulder at his passenger and pointed into the distance without saying a word. Ashton put his head out of the hatch and looked in that direction. He could barely make out the outline of a safari Land Rover and a white man in khaki sitting on its bonnet.
‘You want to get off?’ Happy repeated gently.
Ashton nodded, picking up his slouch hat from the empty seat next to his and putting it on. The co-pilot smoothly fitted the stepladder into the grooves at the bottom of the hatch door. Ashton climbed down, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a helping hand from Happy. The plane began taxiing off, with the co-pilot waving out to him. Ashton held on to his hat with one hand to prevent it from being blown off.
‘Good luck, bwana!’ the co-pilot called out, his voice trailing off as the airplane taxied away.
Ashton waved back and watched the plane gather speed and lift off in a plume of red dust. Suddenly, he felt very alone. He gripped his bag and walked slowly towards the clearing where he had seen the Land Rover.
As he drew closer, Ashton noticed that the man waiting for him, his eyes curious, was young, slim and of average height. A big Stetson framed his long, tousled, curly black hair. A croc-skin belt hung on his hip, with a holstered Colt slung low. In his hands was a rifle.
Ashton put his bag down and held out his hand. ‘Peter Radigan, I presume?’
The young man’s face crinkled with mirth and he let out a guffaw, sliding off the bonnet and leaning forward to take his hand. Looking closely at the man’s fine facial contours and clean-cut features, Ashton thought he could easily have passed off as a theatre actor.
‘Man, how I’ve always wanted to be able to say that!’ Peter exclaimed. His drawl was unequivocally American. ‘Come on, get in. Aida will be really mad if we’re late for lunch!’
He lithely climbed over behind the wheel, tossing the rifle on to the back seat. He took off his hat and waved it around above his head. Ashton realized it was a kind of signal as a burly black man emerged from behind a clump of trees and approached them at a measured jog. He was carrying a big gun and belts of ammunition were slung around his neck. As he came closer, Ashton saw that his weapon was a Soviet UMG, what they called a Pika, effective at 800 yards. No wonder the pilot had been in a hurry to take off!
