77

Macfarlane spent the next day in the castle as the quickly abandoned guest of the dzong pen. Welcoming the rest and the solitude, he explored the castle. It was fascinating to Macfarlane, a piece of living history. From one window, he thought he could even see Mount Everest itself. The sight made him shiver. He thought again about General Bruce leading those first British expeditions to the mountain, and then of that famous British climber, George Leigh Mallory, who first went with him and then ended up vanishing so high on its flanks.

Is it really possible that he could have stood on the summit that day, as some of the newspapers still speculated?

Looking at the immense mountain, the lieutenant imagined the honor and courage that Mallory must have had to attempt such a feat, knowing full well that with every step he risked death. It was a humbling thought.

Returning to his room to rest, the Gurkha sergeant approached him with Zazar standing alongside. “Zazar wishes to make a transaction with you, Lieutenant Macfarlane, sir,” the sergeant announced.

Macfarlane ignored the Tibetan’s stare to reply to the Gurkha. “Does he indeed, Sergeant. And why should he feel the need to make a transaction with me now?”

“He says that it is you that has the need and, if you don’t, you will never find the German you seek, returning to your countrymen empty-handed and in disgrace.”

The accuracy of the Tibetan’s understanding of Macfarlane’s position caused the officer to involuntarily glance at Zazar. Their eyes momentarily locked.

“Go on. I’m listening.”

The Tibetan and the sergeant talked some more until Zazar gestured that the man relay the conversation to Macfarlane. “Zazar wants you to pay him what was agreed with Colonel Atkinson when he leads you to the German and the Sherpa. He says that you can then take the German but the Sherpa must be allowed to stay in Tibet with Zazar.” The sergeant paused before adding, “I am thinking, sir, that Zazar has sold the Sherpa’s head to the dzong pen. The dzong pen will pay much money for it to show everyone that he is stronger than a hawk god and that no man can escape his castle.”

Macfarlane was outraged at the Tibetan’s gall.

“Absolutely not!” he shouted in reply. “Tell that accursed man that the Sherpa Ang Noru is wanted by the British authorities for aiding and abetting a foreign agent in activities detrimental to the interest of His Majesty. The Sherpa is not a bargaining chip for this man hunter to demand at will.”

The Gurkha relayed the response to the Tibetan. With a slight smile, Zazar stared back at the officer as he replied in his low, guttural voice, the Gurkha translating as he spoke. “He says then you should return to the very top of the castle and from a window look down the great cliff it stands upon. He says that if you can imagine yourself climbing up that cliff alone and in the night, then you will catch the German yourself and have no need of his help. If however, when you look down it, your stomach turns over, your palms sweat, and you know that you could never do such a thing, then he says that you are in no position to bargain, for you will never catch a man who can climb such a wall without Zazar’s good help.”

The Tibetan turned and walked away, indifferent to Macfarlane’s shouts to stay exactly where he was.

Macfarlane held out for most of the next day but then reluctantly followed Zazar’s suggestion. Returning to the window from where he had seen Everest, he pushed his head out, this time looking straight down.

The plummeting drop below him made him instinctively pull back. It felt as if the castle could topple off the edge of the cliff at any moment. Looking out a second time, the mere thought of the view down the sheer rock face made him involuntarily brace his knees against the wall and lock his hands onto the window frame. Only then could he study the cliff below.

It was precipitous, sheer, and, although seemingly impossible to climb, the officer understood Becker must have somehow gotten up it to enter the castle and free the Sherpa. If so, it was a feat of incredible skill and bravery. The realization forced Macfarlane to tell himself that if he didn’t want to return to his regiment and his family a disgrace, he was going to have to use every tool in his power to find such a man. He must swallow the bitter pill and accept Zazar’s offer for the greater good.

Even though he immediately sought out the Gurkha sergeant and told him that he would accept the Tibetan’s terms, it wasn’t until the evening that Zazar reappeared. When he did, he was pulling a small child after him. The boy was struggling to free himself from the tight grip on his hair, twisting and screaming like a snared cat, kicking out without effect at the man’s long legs. In the flickering lamplight, Macfarlane saw that it was the boy with the hawk chick he had seen watching the devil dance.

Stopping before Macfarlane and the Gurkha sergeant, Zazar kicked the boy’s feet from under him so that he fell to his knees. The Tibetan instantly squatted alongside him, tugging his head back, forcing him to look up at the officer.

The boy glared fiercely into Macfarlane’s eyes before spitting up into the air.

Zazar immediately slapped the boy hard on the side of the head. The small child reeled from the blow and screamed back at the Tibetan so piercingly that Macfarlane’s ears whistled.

The boy then spat up at him again. This time the frothy saliva was streaked with blood.

As Zazar raised his hand to strike the child again, Macfarlane shouted at the Gurkha sergeant to intervene. “Sergeant, stop him. What is this, for God’s sake? Who is this?”

The sergeant did as he was ordered, the Tibetan slamming the boy forward hard onto the flagstones, his face giving a crack as it struck the floor. Then, wedging his knee across the back of the boy’s neck, he pulled the hawk chick from his own jacket and spoke back to the Gurkha.

“Zazar says this boy helped the German climb into the castle to free the Sherpa. He stole this young falcon from its nest on the great cliff.”

“So where are they now?” Macfarlane demanded.

The Gurkha and the Tibetan spoke again before the sergeant responded, “Zazar says the boy knows, although he won’t say.”

“Sergeant, tell this boy that no one wants to hurt him, that I can make this stop. Let him go with his hawk. He only has to tell us where the German and the Sherpa are now.”

When the Gurkha completed the translation, the boy struggled violently against the heavy pressure of Zazar’s knee before shouting desperately back at Macfarlane. As the last word escaped his lips, the manhunter smacked the boy across the back of the head with his free hand.

“I cannot translate his reply, Lieutenant Macfarlane, sir. It is too disgusting to repeat to an officer,” the Gurkha sergeant said.

“Repeat my message to him, Sergeant.”

The sergeant did as he was told, but the boy just spat again.

Enraged by his continued insolence, Zazar pulled the child back onto his feet by the hair and flung him against the wall.

To Macfarlane’s shout of, “For Christ’s sake, man!” the boy’s body crashed against the plaster and fell back hard onto the floor. For a moment he lay quite still. Then, like a crushed crab pulling itself back under a rock, he dragged himself tight into the foot of the wall, sobbing and staring at his torturer with fear in his broken, bleeding face.

Zazar raised himself up to stand over him, one arm holding the hawk chick by the neck so that the boy could see it dangling. Slowly and deliberately the Tibetan flexed his big hand around its neck.

The eyas’ beak gaped open in a desperate reflex against the suffocation. It flapped its stubby down-covered wings pathetically, clawing weakly at the man’s wrist.

The little boy looked at the hawk chick and then at Macfarlane. Staring at the British officer, he began to beg, screaming, “Nein, nein, nein.”

Macfarlane instantly understood that the boy was appealing to him to stop Zazar in the only foreign words he knew—German words.

Zazar spoke again to the boy. Wiping the blood and tears from his face with the back of his hand, the boy shook his head and said, “Nein,” once again.

The Tibetan began to swing the chick as if preparing to spin its body from its neck.

The boy looked beseechingly again at Macfarlane before prostrating himself on the floor, facedown, sobbing uncontrollably.

Lying there, his body shuddering, his small hands beating the stone, one word started to emerge, “Chomolungma.”

“What is he saying, Sergeant?”

“Chomolungma, sir. It is the Tibetan name for Mount Everest. The German and the Sherpa have gone to Mount Everest.”

Zazar shouted triumphantly and, thrusting his arm high into the air, closed his hand on the chick’s neck. The hawk chick’s feet kicked downward three times and its eyeballs burst from their sockets. The tiny wings fell limp.

The Tibetan threw the dead bird at the boy’s defeated body and then walked back to look Macfarlane straight in the eyes. As he did so, he said something to the British officer before turning and striding from the room.

“Hawk spirit dead now,” translated the Gurkha.