Chavasse smiled. Just about.
Then twenty as Chief and thanks to the Irish situation, leading just as hazardous a life as when you were a field agent. The prime minister shook his head. I dont think we can let all that experience go.
But my knighthood, Chavasse said, the ritual pat on the head on the way out. I must remind you, Prime Minister, that Im sixty-five years of age.
Nonsense, John Major told him. Sixty-five going on fifty. He leaned forward. All this trouble in what used to be Yugoslavia and Ireland is not proving as easy as wed hoped. He shook his head. No, Paul, we need you. I need you. Frankly, I havent even considered a successor.
At that moment Williams came forward. Sorry, Prime Minister, but I must remind you of the time.
John Major nodded and stood. Chavasse did the same. I dont know what to say.
Think about it and let me know. He shook Chavasse by the hand. Must go. Let me hear from you, and he turned and walked out, followed by his detective and Williams.
And think about it Chavasse did as he sat at the long table in the dining room and had a cold lobster salad, washing it down with the rest of the champagne. It was crazy. All those years. A miracle that hed survived and just when he was out, they wanted him back in.
He had two cups of coffee then went downstairs, recovered his raincoat and went down the steps to the street. The Jaguar was parked nearby and Jackson was out in a second and had the door open.
Nice meal? he asked.
I cant remember.
Jackson got behind the wheel and started up. You all right?
Chavasse said, What would you say if I told you the prime minister wants me to stay on?
Good God! Jackson said, and swerved slightly.
Exactly.
Will you?
I dont know, Earl, I really dont, and Chavasse lit a cigarette and leaned back.
As they reached the turning into St. Martin s Square, Chavasse said, Stop here. Ill walk the rest of the way. Time I took a look for myself.
You sure youll be all right? Jackson asked.
Of course. Give me the umbrella.
Chavasse got out, put up the umbrella against the relentless rain, walked along the wet pavement until he came to the next turning, which brought him into the Square on the opposite side from his house. He paused. There was a touch of fog in the rain and he seemed to sense voices and laughter. He crossed to the entrance to the garden in the centre of the Square.
The voices were clearer now, the laughter callous and brutal. He hurried forward and saw the mystery man clear in the light of a street lamp, being manhandled by three youths. They were typical of a type to be found in any city in the world, vicious animals in bomber jackets and jeans.
One of them wore a baseball cap and seemed to be the leader. He swatted the mystery man across the side of the head and the trilby hat went flying, revealing a shaven skull.
Christ, what have we got here? the youth in the baseball cap demanded. A bloody Chink. Hold him while I give him a slapping.
Chavasse, seeing the mans face clear in the light of the street lamp, knew what he was. Tibetan. The other two lads grabbed the man by the arms and the one in the baseball cap raised a fist.
Chavasse didnt say a word, simply stamped hard against the back of the lads left knee, sending him sprawling. The youth lay there for a moment, glowering up.
Lets call it a night, Chavasse said, putting down his umbrella.
The other two released the Tibetan and rushed in. Chavasse rammed the end of the umbrella hard into the groin of one and turned sideways, then stamped on the kneecap of the second, sending him down with a cry of agony.
He heard a click behind and the Tibetan called, Watch out!
As Chavasse turned, the one in the baseball cap was on his feet, a switchblade in one hand, murder in his eyes. Suddenly, Earl Jackson seemed to materialise from the gloom like some dark shadow.
Can anyone join in? he enquired.
Can anyone join in? he enquired.
The youth turned and slashed at him. Jackson caught the wrist with effortless ease, then twisted hard. The youth dropped the knife and cried out in pain as something snapped.
Jackson picked up the knife, stepped on the blade and dropped it down the gutter drain. The other two were on their feet, but in poor condition. Baseball cap was sobbing in pain.
Nigger bastard, he snarled.
Thats right, boy, and dont you forget it. Im your worst nightmare. Now go.
They limped away together, disappearing into the night, and Chavasse said, Good man, Earl. My thanks.
Getting too old for this kind of game, Jackson said. And so are you. Think about that.
The Tibetan stood there holding his trilby, rain falling on the shaven head, the yellowing saffron robes beneath the raincoat indicating one thing only: that this was a Buddhist monk. He looked about thirty-five, with a calm and placid face.
A violent world on occasion, Sir Paul.
Well youre up to date at least, Chavasse told him. Why have you been hanging around for the last three days?
I wished to see you.
Then why not knock on the door?
I feared I might be turned away without the opportunity of seeing you. I am Tibetan.
I can tell that.
I know that I seem strange to many people. My appearance alarms some. He shrugged. I thought it simpler to wait in the hope of seeing you in the street.
Where you end up at the mercy of animals like those.
The Tibetan shrugged. They are young, they are foolish, they are not responsible. The fox kills the chicken. It is his nature. Should I then kill the fox?
I sure as hell would if it was my chicken, Earl Jackson said.
But that would make me no follower of Lord Buddha. He turned to Chavasse. As you may be able to tell I am a Buddhist monk. My name is Lama Moro. I am a monk in the Tibetan temple at Glen Aristoun in Scotland.
Christ said that if a man slaps you across the check turn the other one, but he only told us to do it once, Chavasse said. Jackson laughed out loud. Chavasse carried on. Have you eaten?
A little rice this morning.
Chavasse turned to Jackson. Earl, take him to the kitchen. Let him discuss his diet with Lucy. Tell her to feed him. Then bring him up to me.
You are a kind man, Sir Paul, Lama Moro said.
No, just a wet one, Chavasse told him. So lets get in out of the rain, and he led the way across the road.
An hour later there was a knock at the drawing room door and in came Lucy, the apple of Jacksons eye, a face on her like that of some ancient Egyptian princess, her hair tied in a velvet bow, neat in a black dress and apron.
Ive got him for you, Sir Paul. Lucky I had plenty of rice and vegetables in. Hes a nice man. I like him. She stood back and Moro entered in his saffron robes. Ive got his raincoat and hat in the cloakroom, she added, and left.
A glass in his hand, Chavasse was sitting in one of the armchairs beside the fire, which burned brightly.
Come and sit down.
You are too kind. Moro sat in the chair opposite him.
I wont offer you one of these. Chavasse raised the glass. Its Bushmills Irish whiskey, the oldest in the world, some say, and invented by monks.
How enterprising.
Youre a long way from home, Chavasse said.
Not really. I left Tibet with other refugees when I was fifteen years of age. That was in 1975.
I see. And since then?
Three years with the Dalai Lama in India, then he arranged for me to go to Cambridge to your old college Trinity. You were also at the Sorbonne. I too have studied there, but Harvard eluded me.
You certainly know a great deal about me, Chavasse told him.
Oh, yes, Moro said calmly. Your father was French.
Breton, Chavasse said. There is a difference.
Of course. Your mother was English. You had a unique gift for languages, which explains your studies at three of the worlds greatest universities. A Ph.D. at twenty-one, you returned to Cambridge to your own college, where they made you a Fellow at twenty-three. So there you were, at an exceptionally young age, set on an academic career at a great university.
And then? Chavasse enquired.
You had a colleague at Trinity whose daughter was married to a Czech. When he died, she wanted to return to England with her children. The Communists refused to let her go and the British Foreign Office wouldnt help. Moro shrugged. You went in on your own initiative and got them out, sustaining a slight wound from a border guards rifle.
Ah, the foolishness of youth, Chavasse said.
Safely back at Cambridge, you were visited by Sir Ian Moncrieff, known only as the Chief in intelligence circles, the man who controlled the Bureau, the most secret of all British intelligence units.
Where in the hell did you get all this from? Chavasse demanded.
Sources of my own, Moro told him. Twenty years in the field for the Bureau and twenty years as Chief after Moncrieffs death. A remarkable record.
The only thing remarkable about it is that Im still here, Chavasse said. Now who exactly are you?
As I told you, Im from the Tibetan temple at Glen Aristoun in Scotland.
Ive heard of it, Chavasse told him. A Buddhist community.
I live and work there. I am the librarian. I have been collating information on the escape of the Dalai Lama from Tibet in March 1959.
A great light dawned. Oh, I see now, Chavasse said. Youve found out that I was there. That I was one of those who got him out.
Yes, I know all about that, Sir Paul, heard of those adventures from the Dalai Lamas own lips. No, it is what comes after that interests me.
And what would that be? Chavasse asked warily.
In 1962, exactly three years after you helped the Dalai Lama to escape, you returned to Tibet to the town of Changu to effect the escape of Dr. Karl Hoffner, whod worked as a medical missionary in the area for years.
Karl Hoffner? Chavasse said.
One of the greatest mathematicians of the century, Moro said. As great as Einstein. He was almost impatient now. Come, Sir Paul, I know from sound sources that you undertook the mission, and yet there is no record of Hoffner other than his time in Tibet. Did he die there? What happened?
Why do you wish to know?
For the record. The history of my countrys troubled times under Chinese rule. Please, Sir Paul, is there any reason for secrecy after thirty-four years?
No, I suppose not. Chavasse poured another whiskey. All right. Strictly off the record, of course. Flight of fancy when you put it on the page.