Year of the Tiger. Jack Higgins
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the Bureau, Paul?’ He smiled. ‘Don’t answer, I’ve been through your record. Twenty years as a field agent, shot three times, knifed twice. You’ve had as many injuries as a National Hunt jockey.’
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 don’t 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 I’m 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 we’d hoped.’ He shook his head. ‘No, Paul, we need you. I need you. Frankly, I haven’t 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 don’t 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 he’d 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 can’t 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 don’t know, Earl, I really don’t.’ And Chavasse lit a cigarette and leaned back.
As they reached the turning into St Martin’s Square Chavasse said, ‘Stop here. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Time I took a look for myself.’
‘You sure you’ll be all right?’ Jackson asked.
‘Of course. Give me the umbrella.’
Chavasse got out, put up the umbrella against the relentless rain and 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.
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?’ he demanded. ‘A bloody Chink. Hold him while I give him a slapping.’
Chavasse, seeing the man’s 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 didn’t say a word, simply stamped hard against the back of the lad’s left knee, sending him sprawling. The youth lay there for a moment, glowering up.
‘Let’s call it a night,’ Chavasse said, putting down the 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, stamping 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. Earl Jackson seemed to materialize from the gloom like some dark shadow.
‘Can anyone join in?’ he enquired.
The youth turned and slashed at him.
Jackson caught the wrist with effortless ease, twisting hard, the youth dropping the knife and crying 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.
‘That’s right, boy, and don’t you forget it. I’m 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, you’re 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 see, 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 cheek 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 let’s get in out of the rain.’ And he led the way across the road.
* * *
It was an hour later when there was a knock at the drawing-room door and Lucy came in, the apple of Jackson’s eye, a face on her like some ancient Egyptian princess, her hair tied in a velvet bow, neat in a black dress and apron.
‘I’ve got him for you, Sir Paul. Lucky I had plenty of rice and vegetables in. He’s