But on a count of ninety, dusty and perspiring, Troop re-emerged. ‘Interesting! Interesting!’ he said.

‘Why? What have you seen?’

‘Well, in the first place there are capacious cellars down there and somebody’s taken the trouble to clean and sweep them out recently. Secondly, the cellar door was locked with an elaborate padlock. A sensible precaution, you’d think, but someone – presumably not Rheza Khan (he’d have more sense) – carefully left the key (quite a handsome one incidentally) hanging on a nearby nail. Bloody place is full of packing cases. All marked with ICTC lettering. All containing not – as you might expect – trashy Indian artefacts for the European market but far from trashy European rifles!’

‘Surprised?’

‘Surprised? Not in the least. Confirms all I was telling you about the Murphy system. I’d say this is the last consignment of who knows how many to make its way north of the Zalori. No, the only thing that surprises me is that it should have been left unattended. You don’t just dump a hundred rifles in a cellar in the middle of nowhere and bugger off. Unless you know that someone’s on his way to pick them up any minute. I reckon the mule train that dropped them off is not long gone, possibly off to the west towards the railhead on legitimate business, and Rheza is expected any moment to take charge. I’d guess his brigand cousins will arrive here tomorrow with fresh mules to pick them up. But, for the moment, we’ve got the place to ourselves. Wind’s about right,’ he added. ‘We’ll be safe to make ourselves a cup of tea.’

They led their horses up the slope, through the gate and round to the back of the building where they tethered them out of sight amongst the willow trees that had established a precarious foothold in the crumbling mud-brick walling. Troop slung his rifle over one shoulder and unbuckled his saddlebag, carrying it over the other. ‘There’s a little staircase round the corner. Let’s go and man the battlements.’ He led the way upwards, climbing the sunbaked masonry. ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to have to carry you home.’

They settled by an arched embrasure ten feet from the ground and having a sweeping overview of the approach to the fort.

‘Keep a lookout, will you, while I brew up.’ And from one pocket he withdrew a brick of green tea and from another a knife. He drew attention to a small charcoal stove in an angle of the wall and to a brass pot with small attendant cup on the wall behind it. ‘Somebody,’ he said, ‘has been here very recently and thoughtfully left the tea things for us!’

He dipped water from a rainwater cistern into the brass pot and placed it on the stove. Taking pieces of charcoal from a saddlebag he set light to them and waited for the water to reach a rolling boil. Shielding his hand with a handkerchief he set the pot on the floor and began with the knife to shave flakes of green tea from the block into the pot. Watching Troop’s neat, economical movements with admiration, Joe doubted if a cup of tea had ever been more eagerly awaited. The brass cup was filled from the pot and Troop brought it over, steaming and fragrant, to the embrasure where Joe remained scanning the road.

Joe found his respect for Edgar Troop mounting by the minute. ‘Tell me,’ he said, accepting the tea without taking his eyes from the scene below, ‘where did you learn to quote from Omar Khayyam?’

‘You are surprised to find even the faintest evidence of civilization in one so disreputable? My family were Baltic merchants. I was educated at the English School in Riga. Before the war, of course. I served in the army – the Russian Army. Not this mob but the Imperial Russian Army. People sometimes refer to me as Captain Troop. Does me less than justice! Major Troop would have been nearer the mark.’

He rummaged around in his saddlebag and took out two small packages. ‘Come and sit down. I’ll take over the watch while you help yourself to some of this. Any fool can go hungry.’

‘This’ was a block of Caley’s Marching Chocolate and a packet of Huntley and Palmer’s Campaign Biscuits. They took turns to sweep the country through the binoculars, munching companionably. Joe remembered that he had had no lunch and wondered briefly what he might expect for supper. Assuming he was still around at supper time. The taste of the rough biscuit, the feel of the rifle in his hands, the jovial toughness of the man he found himself unexpectedly in harness with brought back with clarity the less unwelcome aspects of war. If only he’d been doing this with Sebastian! And was he crazy now to go unquestioningly through the familiar gestures with this stranger? They were in a situation where they would have to watch each other’s back. Troop was taking Joe’s ability for granted. His instructions ran to the minimum. He knew how Joe would react and that his reactions were trained and could be relied on. Joe had begun to suspect that his own background was less of a mystery to Troop than might be accounted for and yet Troop’s history and motivation for Joe were still unclear. Building on the camaraderie of the moment he picked up the conversation. ‘And,’ said Joe, ‘from the Russian Army to Simla – that seems a fair stride. How did it come about?’

‘Oh, well, when all hell broke loose in 1916 in Russia the most important thing to do was stay alive! I didn’t much care who won. My sympathies, I suppose, were with the Imperial Russian Army but one thing on which I was absolutely determined was that whoever else got killed, it wouldn’t be Edgar Troop! I deserted. I drifted south. Even found myself in the Red Army briefly, until they found I was English. Foreigners who’d served in the Imperial Army weren’t the most popular in the world with the Bolshies! I even once saw a firing squad falling in, planning to shoot me, if you can believe it! But I smoke a little hashish from time to time. I made up about twenty cigarettes which I distributed amongst my guard who were innocent kids from Moscow. I left them all grinning and giggling – capable of nothing – and went on my way.’

‘Nothing in this cup of tea that shouldn’t be there, I hope?’ said Joe.

‘No, no! As served at Joe Lyons! But, as I say, I introduced my guards to an expensive habit and proceeded on my way, finally getting to Kashmir. A long journey. It took the best part of a year. A useful year. At the end of it I was a pretty fair shikar and a pretty fair linguist too. In Kashmir I ran into the full might of the British Empire and in particular into a good, solid-going, experienced and competent British Proconsul. He had the sense to see that a Russian-speaking, English-born, former member of the Imperial Army might be a useful individual to have on a retainer. He made me an offer. I accepted his offer and I’ve stayed in touch with him ever since. Oh, yes, the Troop information service has been of some use to the Raj!’

Troop grinned and added, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have forgotten that the talented but far from respectable Captain Troop is believed to hold a controlling interest in a thriving brothel?’

‘Yes, I had heard as much.’

‘Well, quite true – I do. And from the military’s point of view an expensive brothel is probably the best listening post you could have! Even wily Indians like to show off at times! Plenty of valuable information reaching the ears of the Chief of Staff started on the rounds as pillow talk.’

‘And what’s become of this British paragon who recruited you?’ Joe asked, his suspicions already formed.

‘Oh, he did well. Built quite a career. Widely respected. Knighted even. His name’s George Jardine.’

He paused, standing to one side of the embrasure and swept his binoculars back over the south road. He murmured a quiet oath. ‘We’ve got visitors!’ he said with satisfaction.

Chapter Twenty-six

«^»