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

what am I thinking! You’ll recall the thugs and vagabonds he surrounds himself with: hard and often cruel men, well-suited for the hunt which Von Karloff devoted his life to—he must win at all costs, with no quarter given to his enemies and rivals.”
    Rowena smiled mildly. “As Jamyang said, people like you.”
    Reed cast a dark look at her. “You know yourself, Rowena, it is a strange and mysterious life we lead, on the fringes of society and more in the shadows than the sunlight. If my methods have, on occasion, proved … extreme, or outré, then they have been employed only in the furtherance of the British Empire!”
    â€œOf course,” said Rowena, taking a wooden spoonful of stew from the bowl Jamyang had handed her.
    â€œAnyway, Von Karloff and his gang had holed up in the local tavern. The locals at first thought they’d come to loot the place—there’s a bloody monstrous Buddha in the temple, Rowena, all bedecked with gold leaf. I’ll show you in the morning—but it soon transpired they had an even more outrageous mission in mind.”
    Rowena turned to Jamyang. “What was Von Karloff’s business here?”
    â€œHe searches for Shangri-La,” said Jamyang. “I am afraid he might find it.”
    Rowena looked blankly at the Tibetan, then at Reed. “And what is Shangri-La?”
    â€œThat’s what I asked,” nodded Reed. “Tell her what you told me, Jamyang.”
    Jamyang told Rowena a tale, painting a perfect picture with words, of a lush valley that existed beyond the mountains in defiance of the howling Himalayan winds and sub-zero temperatures. Shangri-La was a holy place where time flowed differently—the inhabitants had lived for many generations of mortal folk. Von Karloff, he said, was hoping to steal the secrets of Shangri-La’s eternal life.
    â€œHe must be stopped, Rowena,” said Reed.
    â€œI was afraid you were going to say that.”
    Jamyang nodded. “If it is your desire to stop this Prussian, I can help you. Your Von Karloff has commandeered a team of sherpa to take him over the mountains. I know of a quicker way, but it will still be dangerous and treacherous.”
    â€œIt would be,” nodded Rowena.
    â€œWell?” said Reed.
    â€œYou will go, whatever I do, won’t you? And I’d have to go back to Whitehall and tell them that I’d let you go off on some harebrained scheme on your own?” She could just imagine what Mr. Walsingham, the shadowy head of the British secret service, would say to that. “I don’t suppose I have much choice.”
    â€œThere may be something that persuades you even more than my employer’s ire. Jamyang, tell Rowena about those who live in this fabled Shangri-La.”
    The Tibetan shrugged. “They are all women.”
    â€œAll of them?”
    Reed nodded. “And you know Von Karloff’s thugs. Imagine what they would do to this community of helpless females…”
    Rowena yawned and stretched, suddenly dozy in the heat of the fire. “You mentioned a place to lie? I shall sleep on it, and you’ll have my answer in the morning.”
    The year before, Rowena had been approached by the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies to give a talk at one of their meetings. She was considered something of a role model for young women. But while she sympathized, Rowena did not think that printing leaflets and writing to Members of Parliament would improve the lot of women, nor would preaching to the converted in a draughty church hall in Southwark.
    Riding to the rescue of a community of women in a remote corner of the Himalayas, though? As Rowena pulled the pungent yak-hair blankets up to her chin on the hard bed in the tiny room in Jamyang’s home, she reflected that John Reed possibly knew her better than she knew herself.
    *   *   *
    Rowena Fanshawe was just six years