The Golden Apple of Shangri-La by David Barnett

 
    Men lie, considered Rowena Fanshawe. Men always lie. Whether deliberately or not, whether for personal gain or for the best of intentions, whether malicious or misguided, sooner or later men lie.
    Even heroes.
    Rowena curled as deep into her shearling jacket as she was able, drawing her jodhpur-clad knees up to her chest and blowing into her hands. The inside of the windshield of the Skylady was already coated with a thin web of ice. She had severe doubts about whether the dirigible would even get airborne again. Night had fallen and paper lanterns gave dull illumination to the stone streets of Tashi Lhunpo. Somewhere out there, in the vast monastery reputedly founded by the first Dalai Lama, where the huge statue of the golden Buddha presided over all, the Hero of the Empire conducted his business. Half an hour, he had said, before he came for her and brought her to the warmth, and some food.
    That had been three hours ago.
    They would no doubt be reading some version or other of the meeting in a future issue of the penny blood World Marvels & Wonders , back in the streets of London where greenery overflowed the steppes of the ziggurats in the Mayan style that had so entranced the capital recently, or in the shadow of the Lady of Liberty flood barrier that marked the triumph over the American rebels in 1775. Beneath the gothic spires of New York and across British America they’d be devouring the tale, in the hot Indian nights of the Raj territories they’d read as punka wallahs fanned the displaced Englishmen, even in the penal colonies of Australia they’d fight to the death for the latest adventure. Over half the known world, they couldn’t get enough of the feats of Captain Lucian Trigger, Hero of the Empire.
    And each story, as always, would be prefaced with:
    â€œThis adventure, as always, is utterly true, and faithfully retold by my good friend, Doctor John Reed” — Captain Lucian Trigger
    Another lie. The biggest lie of them all. For it was Doctor John Reed who crept the alleys in the shadowed corners of the world, who flew above the clouds to places with forgotten names, whose name was whispered in places that didn’t exist, or shouldn’t. And it was Captain Lucian Trigger, frail and aged, who sat at home in Mayfair, awaiting his lover’s return with pen poised at inkwell, ready to romanticise the adventures for a sensation-hungry public.
    Rowena rubbed her hands together. How long was Reed going to be in there? She should have known things would not be straightforward when he informed her that his meeting in Lhasa with the Cossack officer and Russian spy Nicolas Notovitch had been satisfactorily concluded … but dash it, if it hadn’t thrown up more surprises. As the mere pilot, engaged and handsomely paid, it had been Rowena’s job simply to take Reed to Tibet and return him to London safely. She didn’t know the reason for the assignation, nor did she care to. But, of course, her passenger being who he was, an opportunity for what he called "a small diversion" soon presented itself. Reed had found her in the local tavern, excitedly saying they must make haste for Tashi Lhunpo.
    "Notovitch has seen two people known to both of us pass this way," he’d said. "Professor Reginald Halifax and … Pieter Von Karloff!"
    Rowena had agreed that the pair were strange bedfellows, especially in this Godforsaken corner of the world. Halifax was a noted archaeological professor who had helped out Reed on previous occasions, and was a man who, he asserted, he could call friend. Pieter Von Karloff had never boasted—and would never deserve—the friendship of decent, honest men, declared Reed. A Prussian by birth he had no loyalty to any flag, save that which paid him the most. After the meeting with Notovich, Reed mused: “Von Karloff is a brilliant archaeologist, but one driven by greed and the lure of fortune. I cannot believe that Halifax has