Quiller Bamboo

by Adam Hall

  I am very tired, my friend.

  The roof of the cave changed as the light changed, darkening and brightening as the helicopter made its run from east to west, from west to east, and the shadow of the stalactites stood like bristles across the rockface, slanting and straightening and slanting again as the helicopter flew past. Some of the stalactites had broken away, over the centuries, and were lying on the ground.

  Reek of kerosene on the air, a sickening smell. When you are tired, very tired, heavy odors are unwelcome, aren’t they, get on your stomach, make one irritable.

  I feel irritable, my good friend.

  Beat of the rotor blades, drumming in the mouth of the cave, throbbing against the ears.

  Xingyu was over there, on the ground, Dr. Xingyu Baibing, lying on the ground.

  He moved again and I tightened the lock on his throat but oh my God he was strong and rolled half over and I had to bring my knee up in another strike for the spine but it didn’t have enough force because this man had drained most of the strength out of me since he’d come in here and gone for Xingyu first because he was the priority target and I’d managed a hook-kick to throw him before he could make his kill and it had started from that point and there was blood on the floor of the cave, his and mine, and all I could do now was keep the hold I’d got on his throat and see how long he could go without the oxygen he needed: his breath was a low sawing close beside me.

  Moved again and I almost lost it, the sweat running on him and making the lock slippery and that was dangerous, and could be lethal. I was appalled at the degree of strength still left in the man: he must have caught a shot down there before he’d started crawling after us across the rocks - there’d already been blood on his face when he’d reared above us in the cave-mouth. But it hadn’t weakened him.

  Beat of the rotor, the light brightening, lowering, the stink of exhaust gas.

  I thought Xingyu was coming to, trying to raise his head. I would have to tell him not to come any closer, he must keep out of this man’s reach because the last of the strength I still possessed was diminishing over the seconds, draining away.

  Kept moving my other hand, my free hand, over the floor of the cave; they made a faint metallic ringing, the broken stalactites, as I groped among them and at last found one that felt good enough, long enough.

  Pepperidge was signaling me: I’d left the radio switched to receive as he’d instructed. But I couldn’t hear what he was saying because of the noise, the helicopter.

  He moved again, Trotter, feeling the point of the stalactite against his skin. He moved with appalling strength, and I received it, received his strength, and was in awe of it, and made it my own, drawing it into my arm and forcing the lock tighter, letting my mind float to bring the tension down, concentrating on his enormous strength as I let it flow into me and through my arm until the lock was tight enough to keep him still and I drove the stalactite in, I was wondering if you’d give me absolution, my dear fellow, drove it deeper through the running of the blood, there is nothing personal, you understand, in this, drove it to the hilt of my clenched hand until the sawing of his breath became liquid and it frightened him and he found the last degree of strength that we can only find when survival itself demands it, and broke my armlock and threw me off him and I rolled away across the metallic-sounding shards, rolled away as he came after me, huge, a huge man, his blood shining in the light from the helicopter as it flowed from him and he came forward again, hanging on his hands and knees like a monstrous quadruped, his black eyes wide and watching me, came forward again and then stopped, hanging on all fours again with no further will to move, or that was my impression, his eyes watching me in a blank stare, I am for the dark am I not, my dear fellow, I am for the dark now, I believe, watching me until his black eyes dulled and he dropped like a dead bull.

  I am tired, my good friend, very tired … sleep now, sleep …

  They were like little bells, the shards, the stalactites, a delicate tintinnabulation in my ears as boots moved over them, blood congealing on my bare hand, ‘Can you hear me,’ my face against the rough floor of the cave, ‘Can you hear me,’ Xingyu looking down at me saying, ‘It is the radio.’

  Tried to get up and he helped me, his eyes staring, perhaps he’d thought I was dead too, been sleeping, that was all, I had been sleeping, oh sweet Jesus for how long, for how long!

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  Swaying on my feet, the light sweeping across the cave mouth, a wave of exhaust gas blowing in, and when the sound of the rotor died away I could hear their voices, the soldiers calling to one another, and I picked up the radio.

  Hear you, I hear you.

  ‘Colonel Zhou’s ETA should—’

  Look, it’s too late, we can’t leave the cave. They’re too close now, they’d see us.

  Beat of the rotor, the chopper coming back.

  Static, then— ‘Colonel Zhou’s ETA should bring him directly over your location at this moment. I will repeat…’

  Beat of the rotor, its downdraft picking up a vortex of grit from the rocks and whirling it into the mouth of the cave and I shouted for Xingyu to keep back but there was no light flooding down, this was a different machine, a bigger machine, the landing skids putting down on the loose shale and tilting and straightening again as a door swung, open and a man dropped onto the ground and came jogging toward the cave and I went to meet him.

  ‘I am Colonel Zhou. We must hurry, please.’

  I turned and beckoned to Xingyu, but he went on standing there, seemed uncertain, or the damage that Trotter had done to him had left him groggy, so I went and got an arm around his shoulders and shielded his face from the flying grit and brought him to the helicopter.

  I watched from the windows of the military shed at Gonggar, two PLA captains with me, one on each side, as the fighter-bomber lifted from the runway and left a storm of sound booming among the buildings.

  He had looked grubby and dog-tired, Xingyu, his face drawn and his eyes nervy as they’d helped him into his flying gear, but he would catch some sleep on the flight and they’d clean him up hi Beijing and he’d look all right on the screen, that was what mattered.

  ‘Take.’

  ‘What?’

  One of the captains was holding out a packet of cigarettes, the end torn open. ‘Take.’

  I pulled one out and he struck a match for me and we stood together with its light on our faces.

  ‘You help China people.’

  ‘Well, hope so,’ took a quick puff as a gesture.

  The End