“If you can stand, Jake,” said Pasang. “Let me help you outside so that you can see something before more vultures arrive.”
“You explain,” said Jimmy Khan to Pasang and patted me on the back right where the dressing covered my wound. I managed not to scream.
Over on the broad, flat boulder near where we’d been standing when we’d been shot from distant ambush—evidently the two Germans had been hidden behind a boulder only about twenty yards beyond the memorial pyramid of stones that had been raised last year for Mallory, Irvine, and the seven lost Sherpas in 1922—Ulrich Graf’s and Artur Wolzenbrecht’s decapitated heads were set on short stakes lined up very neatly next to one another. Their wide eyes—just beginning to glaze over thickly with the white caul of death—seemed to be staring at us in total surprise. Next to the heads were four severed arms complete with hands, two right arms to the left of Graf, two left arms to the right of Wolzenbrecht.
“Jesus Christ Almighty,” I whispered to Pasang. Looking at Jimmy Khan standing and beaming a few yards away, I also whispered, “Khan and his boys really did a job on these poor devils.”
Dr. Pasang looked at me without blinking. His voice seemed too loud when he spoke. “Mr. Khan explained to me that he and his fifty-five men arrived thirty minutes or so after whatever happened here. He and his men are very impressed with how four or five yeti, angered at the Germans’ presence, took care of our enemies.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I began. But then I finally sorted out the tone of warning in Pasang’s voice and gaze and shut up. For some reason, the bandits wanted us to buy the story that yetis, rather than fur-covered barbarian bandits on horseback, had killed the Germans amidst all that swirling snow. I had no idea why they’d want us to believe that, but I was finally conscious enough to know to keep my mouth shut. These bandits had already knocked me on the head once.
The wind blowing down the long Trough from Everest whistled through the boulders and ruffled the short hair on the dead men’s staked-out heads. The vultures were arriving in force now, and I looked away as they started their meal with the two men’s eyes.
“How long have I been unconscious, Pasang?”
“About five hours.”
I checked my still-ticking watch. (My father never chose anything cheap for a gift.) It was just after noon. Jimmy Khan and two of his lieutenants stepped closer, folded their arms, and grunted with satisfaction at the decapitated heads, four lopped-off arms, and strangely shriveled-looking dead hands. For the first time I noticed, about fifteen yards behind this large flat boulder, a tall pile of what could only be the two men’s intestines. I could see no other evidence of their bodies.
“Metohkangmi,” said Jimmy Khan, and his two lieutenants grumbled and nodded assent. “Yeti.”
“All right,” I said. I staggered away from the trophy stakes and heaps of body parts and found a small boulder to sit on. “Whatever you say, Mr. Jimmy Khan.”
“I’ve found no bullet wounds in the skulls or other detached parts,” said Dr. Pasang, as if that gave forensic support to the bandits’ idiot yeti theory.
As Khan grinned, I gave Pasang a look that should have melted him but somehow didn’t. Perhaps my melting powers were being interfered with by the tremendous headache that continued to throb.
“What next?” I asked.
“Well, Mr. Khan and his associates allowed me to raise the one tent so that I could cut the bullet out of you and let you rest a few hours,” he said softly, “but they won’t allow their camp to be set up anywhere near here. Evidently they feel that Guru Rinpoche, Dzatrul Rinpoche at Rongbuk Monastery, will be displeased when he hears of the violence here today.”
“I thought the Guru Rinpoche liked spreading stories of yetis being up here in the Rongbuk Valley,” I said. “Remember the fairly new mural in the monastery? It helped keep his people and monks away from the hills here.”
“Well, Mr. Khan and his friends insist that we start on the voyage back to the east right away—this afternoon. They have Mongolian ponies for both of us.”
“We can’t leave here,” I said, shocked. “Reggie and the Deacon…”
“Will not be coming down…this way at least,” said Pasang. “Of this I am certain. So we should go with Jimmy Khan and his friendly bandits, Jake. They’ve offered to lead us almost due east from here and then south again across the high Serpo La. That will take us straight down into India. And since we’re traveling so lightly, and if the weather on the high pass holds, the entire trip back might be made in three weeks or less rather than five weeks the way we came in. Jimmy Khan and his band will ride with us and protect us the whole way to Darjeeling, providing a palanquin for you if your wound and headache begin acting up.”
“He must be demanding something for all this friendly help,” I said dully. “Even his old friend Reggie had to pay him so that we could pass through his band’s territory.”
“I offered to pay him one thousand pounds sterling when we’re safe at Lady Bromley-Montfort’s plantation.”
“What?” I cried. “We don’t have a thousand pounds to pay these bandits with! We don’t have a hundred quid between the two of us.”
“You forget, Mr. Perry,” Pasang said sadly. “Lady Bromley-Montfort left the entire tea plantation in my hands—full ownership if she does not return, which I sincerely pray to our Savior that she does. And soon. Her only stipulation was that I pay one-third of the annual profits to Lady Bromley in Lincolnshire as long as the aunt lives. Suddenly—and I pray God, temporarily—I find myself awash in funds. At any rate, considering the importance Mr. Deacon and Lady Bromley-Montfort placed on what you’re expected to deliver directly to London, I agreed that a thousand pounds was reasonable for Khan’s protection and ponies on our voyage back. Khan’s men rarely travel as far into India as the outskirts of Darjeeling, so Mr. Khan is being generous. He will even leave two of his men to stay here near Base Camp for two weeks just in case our friends do come this way.”
I had nothing to say to that.
I looked up toward Mount Everest—mostly hidden by snow clouds, wind blowing wildly from the North Ridge and North Col—and then back at the two Germans’ staring heads on the boulder. The vultures were very busy now.
“If we’re not going to wait here days or weeks in person to see if Reggie and the Deacon end up coming down this way,” I said slowly, trying to think clearly, “then we might as well get headed toward Darjeeling sooner rather than later. Let’s go see what shaggy ponies they’ve chosen for us.”
28.
London in mid-August on rare occasions can be sweltering, but there was a chill in the air that reminded me of our visit to the Royal Geographical Society ten months earlier. Of course, the leaves on the trees weren’t changing in August, but there was some tinge in the air…smoke from coal and wood fires in the houses and buildings, I decided. I was wearing my second-best suit—three-piece, heavy wool, since my one bespoke suit had gone missing in my absence—and I hoped that the brief cold front would make the choice of apparel stand out a little less.
The building was brown with age and soot, its lobby quite imposing. Footsteps echoed on tile and marble. I told the first guard I encountered about my appointment with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he led me to a receptionist, who led me to a clerk, who led me to the important man’s aide, who parked me on a tattered leather couch in a wallpapered waiting room for only a two- or three-minute wait before I was shown into the Chancellor’s inner office.