Under Everest Page 3

  “I’m on your rope, Nima,” he said. “You know that. Where you go, I’ll go.”

  The pressure in her chest eased. Whatever they might find in the Khumbu or on Everest, she did not want to face it without Drew.

  “Thank you, Drew,” she said. There was no further gesture needed, he now looked just as determined as she did. Nima reminded herself Drew had his own reasons for being here, and perhaps for wanting to get closer to Everest as well.

  “Can you take this British man and head to the Icefall? I’m going to take Wanda and our gear to the temple for a puja.” Even with the urgency of the climb, Nima wouldn’t think of climbing Chomolungma without getting the goddess’ blessing first. “First chance we get, we need to get moving.”

  Drew nodded, throwing a look over his shoulder at the front of the tent. Nima’s gaze followed. Still nothing. Maybe Jang wasn’t coming after all. It would be nice to have something go right.

  “Thanks,” she said. She felt some of the weight lift off her shoulders, even as she saw all the pressures the next few days would bring crashing toward her. At least she wouldn’t have to attempt this alone.

  “Just don’t forget,” Drew said, nodding over at Wanda. “That thing we saw out there? The Yeti? It came for her.”

  “Yeah,” Nima nodded, sighing. “So, it might come for her again. I know. We’ll have to―”

  There was a commotion toward the front of the tent, shouting and protesting voices raised over the level of the crowd. Nima pushed onto her tiptoes to try to see over the people in her way.

  Over the crowd she could see three large men walked in and began clearing a space around the entranceway. When the space was clear an even larger man entered escorting a smaller one. The smaller man was Nepalese in descent. He had large, intense eyes visible even at a distance. His mouth was framed by a long, dark mustache, and a smile she could see even from the back of Dorjee’s. The smile of a man who was accustomed to winning.

  “Jang,” Nima whispered.

  They were out of time.

  2

  “Mountains have a way of dealing with overconfidence.”

  —Hermann Buhl

  November 1, 1951

  Dorjee’s Tent, Gorak Shep

  Jang hadn’t seen them yet, but that was the only thing

  Drew had going for him. As usual, the little man had to

  make a big entrance.

  “Get Wanda out the back,” he whispered to Nima as he ducked his head down. “I’ll follow along as soon as I can and meet you at the Khumbu.”

  Nima looked past Drew to the front of the tent, where Jang was demanding to see the owner, Dorjee.

  “I could stay and help,” she said.

  Drew looked down into Nima’s eyes, the same eyes that had spotted him dying in an icy fissure just six months ago. There was no fear in them, then or now. He shook his head and put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I can handle Jang,” he said. “Stick with the plan. I’ve got the old man with me for back-up but get our client on her way. If we pull this off, you’ll never have to deal with this bastard again.”

  Nima smiled, giving him a wink.

  “Be careful, big brother,” she said, and grabbed Wanda’s hand, pulling her toward the back of the tent. The Polish woman gave Drew a look that was hard to interpret. Drew decided she was wishing them luck. He then turned away, focusing his attention on Jang.

  If Wanda’s companion, Carter, had an issue with being left behind, he didn’t show it. The Brit had both boots set firmly on the ground, one hand wrapped around his drink. His eyes followed Drew’s to the tent’s entrance.

  Drew peered through the crowd, trying to get a clearer view of the commotion at the front of the tent. Behind him, he could hear Nima making off through the back with Wanda, their gear in hand. They’d make for the temple to prepare for the climb tomorrow, and with a little luck he and this Carter fellow would be close behind.

  If Jang was as angry as Drew thought he was, it might take more than just a little luck.

  With Nima and Wanda safely away, they would not be in harm’s way if things with Jang went south. The money the Polish woman offered to pay would solve all Nima’s family’s problems.

  Any other issues Jang had, Drew preferred be directed at himself. Drew Adley was a man with nothing to lose, or at least nothing he’d care to admit.

  He suspected Jang didn’t know about the back exit of Dorjee’s, though his Sherpa muscle Shamsher might. He supposed it was possible Jang would have men watching the back, but Jang didn’t know the area that well yet.

  There was no telling how true Wanda’s strange story was, but her money was good. Drew told himself helping Nima and Pasang was the only reason he was doing this. It was certainly enough.

  It certainly wasn’t about her. The dark-haired woman who haunted his dreams, who had been real for one day and one night, only to vanish. The woman who had led him here, somehow, to wander the mountains of Nepal in the vain hope of seeing her again.

  No, this was about helping Nima and Pasang. That was all.

  Jang’s high, shrill voice began to carry over the larger murmur of the crowd. Drew’s language skills were improving enough that he could pick out snippets of the small man’s speech as he argued with Dorjee’s husband, Gyalzen, who was loudly protesting that “Adley” was not there.

  Now he was able to get a clear view of Jang, who had his fist raised at Dorjee’s elderly husband, the sleeve of the crimson silk shirt Jang always seemed to wear riding up to his elbow.

  Jang’s short, thin, pale form would never intimidate anyone. Yet Drew respected and feared the mind underneath the Nepalese man’s thinning hair line, the malice and hunger for status behind his small eyes.

  Standing next to the arguing pair, the towering form of Jang’s primary muscle was hard to miss. Shamsher was not only the biggest Sherpa Drew had ever seen, he was one of the largest men he’d seen in any country.

  Gyalzen was every bit the stubborn old man, pointing a bony finger at Shamsher’s chest and taking no notice of Jang at all. Drew smiled and shook his head. Gyalzen and his wife had been great to Nima and Pasang, taking them in and giving them housing. And when Drew had stumbled in with Nima after falling in a crevasse in the Khumbu, they had treated him like family as well. He would be damned if they were going to take the fall for him here.

  Shamsher’s deep voice responded with low threats. The crowd began to move away from them, sensing the violence that was about to take place.

  Drew jumped on the nearest stool, drawing a grunt of surprise from Carter. All eyes turned to him, which is just what he needed.

  “I am here, Gagan!” Drew called out as loud as he could. “No need to look further!”

  Jang’s head swiveled at the sound of Drew’s voice, his face turning redder than an angry sunset. Drew could almost hear the small man’s blood boiling even at a distance. He had dealt with the petty dictator enough to know nothing got him riled up more than being called by his real name.

  Shamsher began clearing a path through the crowd so the smaller man could reach Drew. The people in the tent parted like the Red Sea, many of them heading for the exit. Jang’s temper and Shamsher’s strength were both well-known, even in remote Gorak Shep.

  “You sure steaming that tinpot was the best move?” the Brit muttered as Drew jumped off the stool. Drew merely shrugged his shoulders, drawing a deep laugh from Carter. The older man took one last swig of his beer, draining the bottle in one quick action. He then stood next to Drew, feet spread and fists raised. Drew couldn’t help but smile.

  “Just get ready to run,” Drew said, scanning the rapidly clearing tables around him. No knives, only bottles. His revolver was still in his pack, tied to the motorbike outside. Not a lot of options.

  “Adley,” Jang said, looking up at Drew. Spittle still hung on Jang’s long, thin mustache after his tirade at Gyalzen. His nostrils flared at the end of his thin nose, the affect was quite comical. Experience ha
d taught Drew that it was easy tp underestimate Jang, yet the urge to laugh was hard to combat. Shamsher blotted out the light from behind his employer, leaving just a small reflection gleaming off the bodyguard’s bald head.

  “Gagan,” Drew replied, keeping both feet planted.

  “I have told you not to call me that, Adley,” Jang said through gritted teeth. “I am Jang Bahadur, the Overseer of this district―”

  “You’re Gagan Singh,” Drew said, smiling and leaning toward Carter. “He’s a petty file clerk with the Jang Dynasty, or was until the Dynasty fell last year. He’s trying to reinvent himself as some regional leader. What’s wrong, Gagan? The money you stole from the court in Kathmandu running out? Need some leverage against the locals here? I bet you could use some―”

  At a snap of Jang’s fingers, Shamsher reached one arm out with the speed of a bullwhip. He grasped Drew by his collar and hoisted him up―his feet barely keeping contact with the ground. Behind him, he heard Carter gasp.

  Shamsher stared at him, increasing the pressure of his grip, his face wearing neither smile nor frown. Drew found the big Sherpa’s flat expression unnerving.

  “Why are you spying on me, Adley?” Jang sneered up at Drew. “Don’t deny it―my men saw one of your little Sherpa friends running out of my tent just an hour ago.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Drew said, doing his best to keep his own face flat despite the strength of Shamsher’s hand.

  Drew quickly noted the absence of Pasang and the rest fell into place quickly. Ah dammit, Pasang. He’d been talking to the kid about Jang’s tent and how poorly guarded it was. Nima’s brother must have gotten impulsive, a trait he shared with his sister.

  He coughed against the growing pressure from Shamsher; disappointed to let the huge Sherpa have that bit of satisfaction.

  Jang threw his hands in the air, stepping closer to Drew.

  His throat getting tighter, Drew could still smell the spices from Jang’s recent meal and see the spittle forming on the small man’s mustache as he stared up at him. Jang’s fists clenched, his face a bright red.

  “Why? Why are you here? Why have you been getting in my way for months now, you damn American. We don’t need you here―we don’t need any more Westerners or your ridiculous influence. Just get out. Get out of Gorak Shep, out of Nepal, out of my life. I am so sick of you―”

  “Everyone needs a hobby,” Drew said, amazed that Shamsher’s arm was not growing tired.

  “Perhaps my new hobby will be making your life miserable,” Jang said, producing a revolver from his jacket and pointing it in Drew’s face.

  The remaining patrons of the tent scattered at the sight, knocking over chairs and tables as they did so.

  “Your short life,” Jang added, with a smile. Shamsher’s grip on his throat remained as unyielding as iron. Drew looked down the barrel of the gun at Jang, the Nepalese man staring back at him. Drew knew Jang would kill for what he wanted, but paying for a hit was not the same as killing a man in cold blood. Did Jang have that in him?

  Drew forced a laugh. “There’s no life to make miserable. After the war, I guess I decided I needed a new power-mad little man to go bother, and you nicely presented yourself. Had you not tried to bully me in Kathmandu last year I never would have met you. Hurt me? What could you do, Gagan? You don’t know me.”

  “I know I could take this little tent away from Gyalzen and his wife. What other form of income does he have? Who will feed his family? You know I control the fate of your little Sherpa friends. The short woman and her brother. They can’t run to the mountains to hide from me. I own them, their father. Their whole village. Will you make them pay the price for you? I thought you were trying to help them?”

  “Leave them out of this,” Drew said, wrapping both hands around Shamsher’s wrist. He tried to remain calm but could not get the images of Nima and Pasang out of his head. How they took him in without a protest, as if he was one of their own. Gave him a family after what was left of his own had rejected him.

  “If you go near them, I’ll kill you . . .”

  Jang laughed. “I believe you, but I don’t think that will be needed. Adley, if Shamsher snaps your neck right here, no one is going to do anything about it. I doubt this stranger is going to risk his life just to help you.”

  Drew had almost forgotten the Brit was there when Carter spoke, his deep voice filling the air between them like fog.

  “Now, young man, I wouldn’t be that sure about that.”

  Carter’s arm shot out so fast Drew almost didn’t see it. The older man connected with Shamsher’s midsection, jamming his fingers into the big Sherpa’s gut. Shamsher dropped Drew immediately, doubling over and coughing violently. Carter then brought his knee into the man’s forehead and Shamsher crumpled to the ground in front of a shocked Jang.

  “Like I said, wouldn’t bet on that, mate,” Carter said, fists raised in Jang’s direction. “Now, you want to have a go?”

  Drew scrambled to his feet, taking a moment to enjoy the shocked expression on Jang’s face. Carter stood over the huge Sherpa, smiling defiantly. It was possible they might just get out of this after all.

  That hope drained away from Drew’s mind as quickly as the smile left Carter’s face. The pair fell into deep shadow as Shamsher rose back up. His face was no longer the expressionless stone mask he had worn earlier, his teeth shined as his lips drew back.

  Jang began to cackle as Shamsher raised one trunklike arm and poised to strike Carter. Drew’s gaze whipped around the tent for options. Maybe he could get the gun from Jang before―

  Drew heard the click of a rifle being cocked. He could not see the owner, but he could heard her. Now it was his turn to smile.

  “Off them, big oaf, and turn around.” The old woman’s voice was so scratchy it sounded as if a fire was speaking. Drew knew that voice well.

  The huge body of Shamsher twisted around to reveal the tiny, elderly form of Dorjee, Gyalzen’s wife.

  She held a shotgun firmly held in her hands, her eyes carrying the same fire as her voice. “You,” she said, indicating Shamsher, “. . . and you, Gagan, I think my boy called you.” She alternated her gaze between the two while keeping the weapon firmly planted in Shamsher’s back. “You will leave my tent. Now.”

  Shamsher remained motionless, while Jang circled his form like he was rounding a tree. Dorjee was tiny enough that she had to look up to sneer at Jang, but she seemed more than happy to do so.

  “Woman.,” Jang said, pointing one finger in her wrinkled face, “this does not concern you. Why do you side with them―with Westerners?”

  In response, Dorjee bit into the air so quickly that Jang almost failed to pull his finger back in time. She laughed and jabbed Shamsher in the back again.

  “I will not side with one who covets the name Jang,” she said. “Nor their lackeys. The Jangs may have done much for Kathmandu and worms like you, Gagan. Those good things did not spread to here, to the Sherpa. If there is to be change, then I welcome the change.” Her weapon remained planted in Shamsher’s back as she leaned toward the retreating Jang. “Now,” she said, “leave my tent, unless you want to see this big one’s insides. You may scare the others around here, but not me. I’ve lived my life, I’ll be happy to end mine ending yours.” She narrowed her eyes, focusing in on the small man. “If I or Gyalzen see you again, it will be the last time anyone sees you.”

  Under his breath, Drew began to laugh as Jang took a step back. The laugh was for show, and he suspected they both knew it.

  Somehow Nima’s people had saved him again. The reprieve would be temporary. Jang would be coming for them, that was now certain.

  With Carter at his side Drew slinked toward the exit, certain he had only made things worse.

  November 2, 1951

  Road to Lhangang Temple, Nepal

  Though Wanda had thought herself to be an experienced hiker, the pace set by this young Sherpa woman was proving difficult to matc
h. The weariness of the night’s events was starting to seep into her bones, adrenaline giving way to fatigue, to say nothing of her heavy pack, laden with half of Carter’s equipment along with her own gear.

  Even though she looked to be half Wanda’s size Nima managed the American’s gear in addition to her own, as if Drew Adley had packed nothing but air. Wanda’s pack felt like it was filled with iron, each chilling blow of the Himalayan winds seeming to add more weight while sapping her strength. The rough, dirt path, the ramshackle rope bridge they had crossed, the yak droppings everywhere―it was getting to be too much.

  Wanda forced herself to push on. If this woman could do this, so could she. Her father’s legacy depended on it. Even her strange abduction would need to fall by the wayside, the Sherpa’s claim of Yeti snowmen along with it.

  “The key to saving our homeland” his letter had said. Papa, what could you have possibly found here?

  If there was an answer up that mountain―be it an answer for him or for her homeland―she would find it. There was simply no other option. She was the last of her family, the last of her father’s line. If she failed, there would be no one to carry on.

  When Nima finally stopped to pull a canteen from her pack, Wanda tried and failed to suppress her sigh of relief. In other circumstances the Sherpa might cut a humorous appearance with her solid, squat form and functional bowl-haircut. Nima’s expressive eyes and ever-present smile worked against that, rendering the woman lovely and endearing, almost despite herself.

  Even with the consistency of that smile and the sparkle of those eyes, Wanda was not sure Nima was finding her as endearing. She was slowing them down, she had noticed Nima repeatedly reducing her pace to avoid getting too far ahead. In the presence of the Sherpa’s boundless energy, Wanda felt as if the path were made of glue. Glue mixed with hidden stones that she seemed to trip on every fourth step. It would be madness for Nima not to be frustrated, even if she didn’t show it.