Sacred Mountain (30 page)

“It’s been a strange way to get to know someone,” she said quietly. “Normally in Nepal, a potential suitor would bring food so their families could eat together and get to know each other.”

“Sorry,” replied Philip, laughing nervously, “I didn’t realise, I’m a bit out of practice. I thought rescuing a kidnapped Llama would be more impressive than a bunch of flowers and box of chocolates.”

They stood in the freezing night air together, and Philip could feel himself relaxing, enjoying the pleasure of simply being with a woman for the first time in many years. Lhamu giggled and turned away, pulling Philip by his hand along the small street.

“We had better hurry,” she laughed over her shoulder. “My father will wonder what you are doing with me out here in the dark. He might start demanding a large dowry!”

Chapter 22

Philip woke to the sound of the dawn chorus, every bird in Kathmandu seemingly outside his window. He tried rolling over, covering his ears with the heavy bolster that served as a pillow, but even that couldn’t muffle the hungry roar of a tiger.

The first time he’d heard it a few weeks before he’d been out of bed in a single leap, convinced in his half-asleep state that a wild animal had got into the grounds of the hotel. He now knew, thanks to Hutch who’d told him once he’d stopped laughing, that a Nepalese nobleman kept a small zoo in the grounds of his palace next door, the inhabitants of which could often be heard.

He’d arrived back into Kathmandu at an opportune time. Hutch was ill. He’d been feeling feverish for several days but with Philip back in town he took to his bed, weak and exhausted. The Embassy had sent their doctor over and it was diagnosed as Glandular Fever with a period of bed rest prescribed. Being an old hand on the subcontinent and used to bouts of Malaria he’d insisted on carrying on, so continued receiving the dispatches from James on Everest and transcribing them for onward transmission. But it was left to Philip to shuttle between his room, the telegraph office and the Embassy, as well as keep an eye on the other papers.

On his first few days back in the city he’d been surprised and alarmed by the number of journalists who’d descended on Kathmandu in an attempt to get the story. As well as the main British papers, there were reporters from various European countries, several from India and all of the major news agencies. As the Government had stopped issuing permits to trek up to Everest, they were all milling around the Embassy and City trying to unearth any news from the mountain.

Not long after he’d returned they’d received a dispatch bag from James that had obviously been opened, the seal was broken and the small lock that held the neck of the canvas closed was gone. He was relieved when he’d read it to discover that it was only an article about life on the mountain, rather than containing any important news, but the runner was paid off and not used again.

The
Times
had an agreement that the Embassy would send articles for them using their transmitter and Philip was a regular visitor to the Radio room. It was during one such visit, while he was waiting for the latest dispatch on establishing Camp Four high on the Lhotse ridge to be sent, that he discovered something alarming. He was chatting to the Second Secretary who shared the office.

“I suppose I’d better take you gentlemen out for a meal next time you’re back in London,” he’d suggested light heartedly. “You’ve saved me a lot of time and effort hanging around the Public Telegraph Office. Christ,” he laughed and shook his head. “I don’t think I’d have survived. I’d probably have been ripped to shreds by the pack of hacks that hangs about outside!”

The Second Secretary, a young, enthusiastic man on his first overseas posting, had smiled back. “You’d better throw in a decent bottle of claret as well,” he’d replied. “We’ve had quite a few offers that would have make us a few quid if we’d taken them up.”

Philip looked at him, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, without naming names, let’s just say that one of your Fleet Street chums has offered us £400 for copies of certain messages we might be asked to send.” He widened his eyes and nodded to where the Radio Operator was busy transmitting the dispatch. “That would pay for a pretty decent hotel next time I’m back on leave to Blighty!”

Philip was stunned. That was the best part of six months’ salary and if some of the papers were prepared to spend that much then they’d certainly be willing to obtain information in any way they could. He’d become even more careful.

All messages to him and Hutch from
The
Times
in London weren’t allowed to be sent to the Embassy in case the other papers complained of preferential treatment. Instead they went to the Public Telegraph Office just off Durbar Square in the heart of Kathmandu. When he’d gone there to check for any new correspondence on his first day back, to his surprise, he’d been handed the entire pile of all incoming messages to check, regardless of who they were for. He’d immediately warned his editors not to send anything sensitive there and made a point of arriving at opening time every day to ensure he could check them before anyone else.

He’d also made a point of visiting and introducing himself at the Indian Embassy, wanting to ensure that if and when the coded message arrived from Namche they’d know exactly where to forward it to by runner. Once every week he popped round, usually with a box of fresh cakes he’d picked up from a little bakery near the hotel, and enjoyed a tea and chat with the Indian High Commissioner.

Interest in the Everest climb was reaching fever pitch in Nepal. Now that the population of Kathmandu knew that a Sherpa was going to be one of those attempting to reach the summit, the excitement had grown and with it an insatiable desire for news on how Tenzing Norgay was doing. People crowded around battered radios set up in shops and offices, listening to the daily updates from the state radio network. Others crowded around as someone read reports from the local paper, shaking their heads in wonder at the vivid accounts copied from James dispatches in
The
Times
.

Life settled down into a routine that swung from complete boredom to frenzied activity when a runner arrived in Kathmandu. He now avoided the cafes of Durbar Square, fed up of being cross-examined by other journalists who congregated there and he spent more time out at the Buddhist shrine of Boudha. There were few other Westerners here and he found he could escape and relax. He’d gone there the day after he’d arrived back in Kathmandu and sought out the Tibetan Zigsa.

Zigsa had greeted him politely, leading him to a tiny tea house frequented only by Tibetans where you sat on old, upturned crates. When they’d both taken a sip of their drinks and exchanged pleasantries, Philip reached down and pulled something from a bag he’d brought with him. He passed it to the Tibetan.

“I’ve brought you something you might been interested in,” he said with a smile, watching Zigsa’s eyes widen.

“Where … where did you get it?” Zigsa asked in a stunned voice, looking down at the black pages and golden ink of the Kanjur that lay on his knees.

“It’s a long story and I’m afraid it got a bit damaged on the way.”

The Tibetan shook his head, running his fingers gently over the damaged cover with its embedded precious stones. Philip sat in silence, letting him enjoy the beauty of what he was holding. He’d left the book at Mingma’s house while they’d been off pursuing the Chinese, his mother locking it in an ancient chest that sat in the corner of the family’s room.

After the fight at Rombuk, Mingma had carefully searched all the soldiers bags until he’d found the missing cover in the pack of the commander, plundered and hidden to be sold off later. The Sherpa had carefully wrapped it in his blanket and carried it back to Namche where he’d reunited the two pieces. Other than the ripped binding and a few loose stones, it had survived remarkably well. They’d offered it to the Rinpoche but he’d shaken his head.

“This manuscript needs to be taken to safety in Kathmandu and the safest way I can think of is for it to go with a westerner. Nobody will think you have a sacred book with you and as part of the expedition the authorities will not search your baggage. In any case I will give you a signed letter of authority that explains your possession of it.”

Philip had felt uneasy at first, worried about the responsibility and potential risks. The book, the Rinpoche had explained as he flicked through the beautifully illustrated pages, had been written in the 1450’s and been in Ganden Monastery ever since. It was sacred to all Buddhists as the original translation of the Buddha’s word. But he realised that what the Rinpoche said made sense and as he’d predicted he’d encountered no problems or awkward questions. The only downside had been a crick in the neck he’d developed as he slept every night with it safely stowed in his pack, which doubled as his pillow.

“We must take this straight to the Chinia Lama at the shrine,” Zigsa had whispered, standing up and leaving the tea beside him untouched. “He is the Dalai Lama’s representative here and will know what to do. It must be placed somewhere safe from the traders and given to the monks so they can repair it. They are very skilled at restoring such items.”

Philip followed him through the warren of tiny alleys that criss-crossed the refugee shelters and up a short flight of stairs to the ornate doors of the shrine. Zigsa strode in without even acknowledging the main golden statue and led Philip up more stairs to a small room where an old monk sat writing at a desk.

The Tibetan nodded towards him. “This is the Chinia Lama.” The two men spoke briefly and then fell upon examining the book. After several minutes the old monk came around his desk and took Philip’s hand, raising to his forehead and saying something.

“He is thanking you,” Zigsa translated. “For saving such an important item and restoring it to us. He asks where you got it from as he is concerned that other such works have been lost as well.”

Philip retrieved his hand. “Tell him not to worry. This book was being smuggled out by some Tibetan monks when they encountered some problems. It was the only manuscript they had with them and nothing was lost.” He paused and looked at the abbot. “You must warn him that he has an important guest on his way. It was he who was originally escorting the Kanjur. He’ll be here in a few days’ time.”

He’d taken his leave, declining to reveal the identity of the traveller, feeling that after all that had happened the fewer people who knew about the mission the better.

Since that visit Zigsa had always welcomed him warmly and now even offered him black tea with sugar rather than butter. It felt like a tranquil refuge where Philip could recover from the exertions, both physical and mental, of the previous few weeks.

On one occasion, a week or so later, he’d been led by the Tibetan, whom Philip could see was bursting with excitement, straight over to the shrine. Here he’d been delighted to find the Rinpoche, who’d arrived a couple of days before, and spent an enjoyable afternoon with him. His attempt to visit the UN was looking promising. He’d managed to obtain the necessary visas for India, Britain and the US and was just awaiting for his travel arrangements to be confirmed.

He’d looked worried and Philip had tried to reassure him that he’d be well received and treated.

“To be honest it’s not that,” the Llama had confided. “It’s the travelling in the aeroplanes that I’m apprehensive about. Tell me,” he asked, leaning forward in his chair, “What is it like?”

Philip thought of the flight into Kathmandu, of the updrafts buffeting the plane as it wove between the forested peaks of the Himalayan foothills. He wasn’t sure what to say as he didn’t want to lie to a highest incarnation of Buddhist Llama. “It’s easier than climbing over a Himalayan pass and more comfortable than camping in the mountains,” he replied tactfully. “The only thing is it can get a bit bumpy as the plane bounces around in the air.”

The Rinpoche nodded. “Before I was a monk I used to enjoy breaking in young ponies on the Steppe. If it gets too rough I will close my eyes and imagine I’m there once more, the wind in my face and sun on my back.”

It was the last time he saw him. By the time of his next visit, he was gone.

*

In his spare time Philip hadn’t been idle. On his last night in Thangboche, staying with Lhamu’s family, he’d listened to her father’s stories and reminiscences of the earlier climbing expeditions, taking copious short-hand notes into his battered notebook. The old Sherpa had loved it, arms waving as he relived his memories in front of a new, enthralled audience. Philip had explained his plan to Lhamu as they’d sat alone by the dying fire later that night, her eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm he prayed was more than the reflected glow of the embers.

Back in Kathmandu he’d used the notes to outline a series of articles about the Everest attempts of the 1920’s, including the mystery of the disappearance of Mallory and Irvine and whether or not they’d managed to reached the summit before vanishing in a storm. If accepted by his editor he’d be able to invite Old Karma, accompanied by Lhamu, to Kathmandu to interview him in more detail. He hoped that after spending so much money on the exclusive rights to the current climb,
The
Times
would be keen to cash in. His proposal went further than this, but he’d not dared mention all of it to her in case it didn’t come off. It was with some trepidation that he’d sent through the proposal to the Features Editor and he then waited nervously for several days for a response. When it came, sitting in the pile of incoming messages at the Public Telegraph Office one morning, he couldn’t bring himself to read it but had shoved it in a pocket, not retrieving it until he was sitting in the gardens of the hotel with a large pot of coffee before him. Taking a deep breath he unfolded the flimsy telegraph paper.

“Attn. Philip Armitage,
Times
Correspondent. Proceed with old Everest articles x 3. Reasonable expenses only please for Sherpa in Kathmandu. Re. your second proposal. We agree so long as the current climb is successful . Best Jack .”

Philip leapt to his feet bursting with excitement and spilling most of his coffee in the process. Lhamu was going to be coming to Kathmandu to look after her father. He felt a surge of hope now that he’d be able to spend time with her and get to know her better, away from the mountains. More exciting was the second proposal. If Hunt’s expedition managed to climb Everest then the amount of interest in the mountain worldwide would be huge. Philip had suggested a series of lectures at the Royal Geographical Society, where the old Sherpa, in tandem with Philip, could talk about Everest past and present. If Lhamu came to Britain with him, he’d have the chance to show her more of his life.