64

Lachen Monastery, Northwest Sikkim

April 13, 1939

4:30 p.m.

The noise of men outside the Dak Guesthouse in Lachen broke the silence of the valley alerting Macfarlane to the arrival of the patrol Colonel Atkinson had dispatched. It was a huge relief as the days waiting for them to arrive had been interminable. Quickly looking out the low door of the drafty bungalow where he had taken up residence after his hasty exit from Schmidt’s camp, Macfarlane was immediately disappointed to see that there were only five men. He had expected more.

Four were uniformed Gurkhas. Behind forced smiles of arrival and determined salutes to their senior officer, they were exhausted, drop-shouldered, and stretched thin from traveling too far and too fast into the highlands. The fifth man accompanying them was not a Gurkha but a taller local man dressed in the almost medieval, heavy black-and-red robes of the Tibetan nomad, a long knife hung from his belt. The hood of his cloak was raised over his head, obscuring the man’s face but not the long, black beard that hung down to his breastbone.

Macfarlane beckoned the sergeant in as the three riflemen unpacked and the Tibetan, offering them no assistance, walked instead to the bank of the small stream that ran in front of the little hunting and trekking cottage. Entering, the Gurkha sergeant saluted again and handed Macfarlane a dispatch pouch from the colonel. The leather case felt thick and heavy in his hands.

Seeing that the sergeant was struggling to catch his breath, Macfarlane put the pouch to one side. “Thank you, Sergeant. Take a moment, and then tell me if you saw any sign of the two missing men on your journey north.”

The small man looked pained, firstly, at having to wait to speak in order to regulate his breathing, and then, secondly, at having to reply in the negative. “No, Lieutenant Macfarlane, sir. Nothing at all.”

Drawing another long breath before he could continue, he added, “We have been vigilant and made inquiries all along the route, but there has been no sight or word of them.”

“Disappointing.”

“Yessir.”

“I was expecting more men, Sergeant?”

“We traveled up under Lieutenant Bailey as a patrol of nine. But we separated earlier when he took four men to go directly to the Zemu Glacier to escort the Schmidt team back to Darjeeling. Their expedition permit has been revoked. We four are to remain under your command.”

“So who then is the fifth man with you, Sergeant?”

“He is called Zazar, Lieutenant Macfarlane, sir.”

Macfarlane repeated the name to himself before asking, “Tell me more about this Zazar.”

“He is a Tibetan, sir, a tracker assigned to us by Colonel Atkinson. He joined us in Gangtok. It is said that he has worked as a man hunter across Tibet for many overlords. I think that it is true. He …” The sergeant hesitated.

“What is it, Sergeant?” Macfarlane asked.

“I think that you will need to talk to this man, sir. Throughout our journey, he has complained to Lieutenant Bailey that Colonel Atkinson is not paying him enough to track wanted men and then bring them back alive all the way to Darjeeling. He says it is far, and ‘alive’ makes more work than returning only with heads as the dzong pen favors. He says that all sahibs are rich so they can pay. You must be careful of him, sir. Zazar has no love of the sahib. No love for any man, I think.”

“I note what you say, Sergeant. Does this Zazar have any idea where the men we seek might have gone?”

“Zazar says they have gone north into Tibet. He says that if they had gone south he would have found them already.”

Macfarlane walked away from the sergeant to look out the door at the Tibetan. A sinister, solitary presence, Zazar was squatting on his haunches and silently staring into the running water of the mountain brook as if willing it to stop. The hood of his cloak was now thrown back and his head, long hair tied back into a plait like something from the Boxer Rebellion, was slightly angled as if he was sniffing the air.

Seeming to sense that Macfarlane was looking at him, the Tibetan slowly turned his head to stare straight back. His eyes bore into Macfarlane’s. They were narrow and dark, deep set within the cruelest face the young lieutenant had ever encountered. The Englishman broke his gaze away from the Tibetan immediately.

“Sergeant, send Zazar down into the town to see what he can find out,” he quickly ordered, turning back into the room. “Then you and your riflemen should make camp and rest, as we will need to make some sort of start early tomorrow, even if I have not yet decided which way we should go. I will study Colonel Atkinson’s orders and make a decision tonight. We have to find these two men, Sergeant, and quickly too.”

The sergeant saluted and left the bungalow, leaving Macfarlane to unseal the pouch he had delivered. Within, he found a long handwritten order from Colonel Atkinson. There were also some detailed survey maps of Sikkim, copies of more rudimentary hand-drawn maps of the Tibetan borderlands, and passe-partout documentation for him and the patrol, allowing them to travel onward into Tibet if necessary. Macfarlane glanced at it all before returning to his instructions from the colonel. Hastily written, they were rambling and lengthy, little attempt made to hide the colonel’s fury with the whole matter, which he clearly saw as the lieutenant’s failure.

The diatribe revealed that Atkinson was convinced that the German, accompanied by a Sherpa who, he added, was already known to be anti-British, must have slipped away to stir up trouble for British interests in the region. At best, it was Sikkim, at worst, Tibet. If it was Sikkim, Atkinson stated he was fairly confident that British control of the tiny country was such that Becker’s whereabouts would be revealed quite easily, possibly before the patrol even met Macfarlane and delivered the very document he was reading. However, if they had gone into Tibet, then matters would be far more difficult. The country was huge, and the British, while influential with the country’s rulers, had little actual authority, particularly beyond the country’s capital, Lhasa.

The letter continued with the information that, although nothing had been proven, the British authorities in India were already wary as to the true purpose of Himmler’s ongoing expedition to Tibet, especially now that it had established itself in Lhasa. Schäfer and his four team members were all known to be SS officers, and the fact that another suspected SS man was now on the loose only made matters more suspicious.

It was on this subject that Atkinson saved his best for last. If Macfarlane could prove that Becker was in Tibet deliberately seeking to damage British interests, then beyond apprehending him, which was to be his priority, it would have the added bonus of allowing the British authorities in India to demand that the Tibetans also expel Schäfer’s team. As the colonel put it, such a “result” might go some way in restoring Macfarlane’s sullied reputation for vigilance and endeavor.

A gentle shaking pulled Macfarlane up from the depths of sleep.

His watch told him it was 3:35 a.m.

“Lieutenant Macfarlane, sir, Zazar has returned. He says he has news of the two men we seek.”

Macfarlane bolted upright, instantly awake.

“What news, Sergeant? Where are they?”

“I will bring him in, sir.”

Macfarlane got up and lit a candle as the sergeant returned to the door of the bungalow, leaned out, and summoned the Tibetan.

Zazar’s shadowy form stepped inside to dwarf the stocky Gurkha. Macfarlane could smell the man now that he was close. It was a rancid, heavy smell that turned his guts as Zazar began to speak in a low growl to the sergeant.

The sergeant translated it for the benefit of Macfarlane. “Zazar says he has been up in the town’s monastery speaking to the last monks and traders to arrive from Tibet for news. Some monks tell him that they met a white-skin and a Sherpa on the Sepu-La.”

“What?”

“It is a mountain pass due north of here. It is the most direct route into Tibet—much more difficult than the one Zazar thought they might take.”

Macfarlane felt his heart jump with this first report of their quarry. The hunt was on.

“We will leave at daybreak,” he said to the sergeant. As he spoke, Macfarlane could feel Zazar staring back at him as if he had already found his prey.