The Golden Apple of Shangri-La by David Barnett Page A

thrown his lot in with him. Rowena, do you suppose a short side-trip to Tashi Lhunpo might be in order…?”
    Which was how Rowena found herself to be freezing in the cockpit of the Skylady while Dr John Reed had disappeared into the swirling blizzard to seek answers in the ramshackle huts and houses that clustered around the imposing shape of the lamasery. How much longer was he going to be in there? And what plans had he made for the rest of the night? Because with the best will in the world, the Skylady was going nowhere until morning, when Rowena could defrost the propellers and loosen up the workings of the gear-driven engine. Eventually she made out a shape in the gloom, waving at her frantically from the front of a stone-built house in the lee of the monastery. Reed, at last. Gathering her satchel—Rowena carried few luxuries on her travels, but liked to keep a pistol at hand—she ventured out into the raging snow storm.
    *   *   *
    As John Reed ushered her quickly into the shelter of the small, flat-roofed house, Rowena glanced at the hooded eyes of the shaven-headed monks who stood silently in the small shelter afforded by the ornate facade held up on four vast red columns that announced the grandeur of the lamasery. Inside the small dwelling, among the dancing shadows cast by a gratifyingly hot fire in the hearth, sat a stocky Tibetan with a long, thin beard, wrapped in animal furs and leather. He inclined his head at her and puffed on the long stem of a clay pipe.
    â€œThis is Jamyang,” said Reed, bidding her sit alongside the fire on a rickety stool. “He’s something of a holy man, as far as I can gather.”
    Rowena caught the man openly staring at her as she shrugged off the shearling jacket, her snow-wet white shirt clinging to her frame. She pulled off her leather flying hat, running a hand through her cropped auburn hair and smiled. “I suppose you don’t get too many visitors up here.”
    â€œNot many like you,” said Jamyang in gruff but clear English. “Not many young women flying airships. Most young women like you in Victoria’s England attending parties and strolling through parks, hmm?”
    â€œI’m not most young women in Victoria’s England,” she said. And if there were times when Rowena Fanshawe, proprietor and sole employee of Fanshawe Aeronautical Endeavours, did sometimes crave a more normal life, those feelings were soon chased away by the sudden shiver she was getting now at the base of her spine, the one that signaled the start of adventure.
    â€œJamyang has stew on the go,” said Reed, shrugging off his own fur layers. His hair was more gray than brown now, his face lined and beaten from the extremes of weather his adventures carried him to. John Reed was handsome and striking, thought Rowena, yet managed to crisscross borders and inveigle his way into the most unlikely places at will. Perfect for his job. Reed sniffed at the aromas coming from the cooking pot. “Yak, I’m afraid, like everything else around here, including the candles, the rug, and the bed-clothes. Did I mention Jamyang has extended his hospitality and we’ll be sleeping here tonight before moving on in the morning?”
    â€œBack to London?” said Rowena, arching an eyebrow.
    â€œWell, of course, eventually…” said Reed.
    â€œGive you an inch and you take a fucking mile,” said Rowena.
    Jamyang chuckled. “No, not many like you, Miss Fanshawe.” He pointed his pipe at Reed. “Plenty like him, though. And recently; a party several days ago passed through here, looking for—”
    â€œHold, Jamyang!” commanded Reed. “A dramatic pause, please! Rowena, our friend told me earlier that the blasted Prussian Von Karloff was indeed here, or at least a party matching his description, and that of Professor Halifax, too. Have you ever met Von Karloff? Of course, you have,