by Adam Hall
Also I had a rendezvous.
Walls of a temple garden, huge cracks in it, weeds growing, a pair of timbered gates, one hanging from a rusty hinge, the other decorated with dried leaves in an intricate design, embodying prayer, presumably, or homage to the Lord Buddha, so I went in there, it seemed appropriate, went in there to keep the rendezvous.
It was mostly a ruin.
The main doors had been chained at some time but one of the hasps had been jimmied away from the woodwork and now the doors hung open. Human excrement on the worn stone steps, pages torn from a pulp magazine, a cracked boot lying on its side in a corner and the white bones of a skeleton glowing in the half-light inside the doorway, a dog's, with one leg missing.
Smell of stale incense, or perhaps a fire, a torching of aromatic timber: this could be one of a hundred temples ransacked and ravaged by the angels of Chairman Mao. It was cold in here, silent, smelling of a grave, with feeble light from the aureoles along the gallery pooling on the floor, playing on dead leaves and the carcass of a rat.
Suddenly a face in front of mine as I moved into the shadows, the shock hitting the nerves and the adrenaline hot in the blood, a face with the gold leaf peeling away from the dry cracked wood underneath, the eye sockets brooding in meditation, the hands folded across the gross belly two inches below the navel, I didn't stop, didn't hesitate, because the scenario required confidence here: I was meant to know my way, I was bringing the insulin to Dr Xingyu Baibing, for it was here that he was hidden.
Scream of a bird and the echoes played it back from the domed ceiling, a flurry of wings and a spattering and then silence again until I moved forward, my boots grating across the chipped tiles, there was a door here.
I pushed it open and it swung back, hitting the wall before I could stop it, darkness now, blindness across the eyes, and a silence so deep that even my breath echoed until I controlled it and went forward again, swinging the door shut but not with a bang, because any noise in this place could attract attention and we wouldn't want that, Dr Xingyu Baibing and I.
'I've got it,' I said, we must not ham it, must not actually say insulin.
'You were late,' at the back of the throat. 'I need it now.'
Then I waited against the wall behind the door.
I was relying on his pride.
This was a kind of inner chamber, I suppose, but it might have another door, to the outside, either locked or chained or able to be opened. There could be fixtures in here, lamps, candle sconces, Buddhas, perhaps, unless they'd been saved from the torching; by the acoustics it was a small place with a flat ceiling, not domed; there was not a photon of light here. It smelled of damp rot, with a mortuary sharpness that caught at the throat: there might be a cadaver here, neither rat's nor dog's this time, and not bared to the bone, the flesh still stirring to the feast of maggots, but we are being morbid, perhaps, the nerves producing a little video show for the imagination to work on, worried now, I was worried because I was relying on his pride and that could be a mistake.
From far away the tolling of a bell, perhaps in requiem, we are not, are we, feeling too cheerful just now, less than sanguine, because he might not, lacking pride, decide to push the door open and come in with his gun to catch us unawares, Dr Xingyu Baibing and I, and make the arrest and herd us to the nearest Public Service Bureau, promotion assured, the man who caught the infamous dissident, subject of a worldwide search. He might decide instead to play it safe and leave us here, sure of our staying at least long enough for him to fetch help in case we were armed.
I didn't want that to happen. I'd pushed the mission into a new phase by making contact with the opposition, with the intelligence service of the host country, and I wanted it to stay like that, and control the outcome if I could. There were- No, he hadn't gone.
The door had a metal lever, and he was pushing it down, and with great care, by infinite degrees, and sweat came on my skin immediately and the pulse went up and I steadied the breathing, we are engaged, my good friend, we shall have our reckoning, he and I.
They would have been interested in this, the people sitting there at the signals board in far Londinium; it would have broken the ennui for them. There'd been a flurry of excitement I suppose when Pepperidge had put it through the mast at Cheltenham, Executive undertakes to ensure silence of subject if protection of mission necessitates, but since then they'd been sitting on their hands.
That was last night. Mr Shepley, Bureau One. Nothing since!
No, sir.
Then where the hell is he? Hyde, my Control, less patient than the King of Kings, less able to control his nerves.
The lever on the door was still moving.
It would have got them going, wouldn't it, if they'd known the score. Holmes would pick up the chalk and look at the big digital clock and punch the international time-zone button and note Tibetan local and fill in the rest of the line, Red One, DIF on open circuit.
And they'd start walking about, not looking at one another, because Red One is perhaps rather theatrical shorthand for a situation in which either the executive's life or the security of the entire mission is in extreme hazard, which can simply mean that the poor bastard out there is stuck on a frozen roof two hundred feet above the street with the lights of the chopper fingering the buildings one by one or spread-eagled facedown with a boot on his neck and a gun in his spine and the stink of exhaust gas from the unmarked van in his lungs or reeling in the chair under the light and praying for the ill-judged blow that will bring him what he can't bring himself because they found the capsule on him and he's got promises to keep before he sleeps and he can't take much more before he breaks them, not much more of this.
There was light on the wall now, a thin pale sliver of light that ran like a vertical crack on the plaster, and across it was his shadow.
There was nothing to be done yet. Things would take their course. I don't like guns and I never use one, as you know, but that's not to say that I don't respect them, for they can summon the death-bringer.
DIF on open circuit is more technical, and simply means that the director in the field can put his signal straight through to the speaker system at the board, taking automatic priority over all other traffic. It can make things tricky if there are two Red Ones in operation from two different missions but it's the best they can do.
The crack of light was widening.
Shall we raise him, sir?
The DIF?
Yes.
Not yet. It's Pepperidge.
Don't call us, we'll call you: despite his gentle manners, Pepperidge has more nervous stamina than most, and doesn't shoot till he sees the whites of their eyes.
What I didn't like was that the hinges of the door were on the left, looking from the other side, from the side where he was standing now, and I was right-handed, and the choice was unaccommodating: either I'd have to use my left hand or move my whole body into his vision field before I could use my right. Either decision could be lethal.
As I'd thought, this place wasn't very big. The light coming through the doorway was faint, but I could see the opposite wall now, and it was close. There wasn't anything to see on the floor so far except chips of plaster and broken tiles, no cadaver despite this smell of decay, no remains of some starving pilgrim who'd crawled in here to sleep and dream no more, nothing, either, like a fallen joist or a broken pane of glass that would do for a weapon.
I could hear him breathing.
He wasn't going to rush it. I didn't expect him to: he'd be well trained, a professional. We could have a whole armoury in here, Dr Xingyu Baibing and I.
The hinges of the door hadn't made any sound when I'd opened it and later closed it, but that could have been because I'd swung it fairly fast. He was moving it much more slowly now, and that could make it creak, and if it did that I would expect him to use his shoulder and smash the door back before we could find our guns, my insubstantial companion and I, because we might be somewhere off this chamber where we
couldn't see the light but could hear the door.
This would be in his mind, as it was in my own. Our heads at this stage were probably eighteen inches apart with the door between them, each the vessel of a quiet blaze of consciousness as the synapses fired in their billions and the nerves at the extremities of our bodies recorded the pressure of the floor underfoot and the tactile impression of the air at my fingertip and the trigger under his and our cortices processed the data and reacted accordingly. I had been as close as this before to a fellow creature whose presence could bring my death, but it's not something you get used to, because every time can be the last and you know that.
The strip of faint light widened on the wall, and his shadow took on bulk. His head was defined now and I could see his right elbow but not the gun: that would be held in front of him.
I could smell him now.
Danger came close — he could smell me.
Nothing, there was nothing to do but wait, and it wasn't easy but it had got to be done because I couldn't leave him alive and I'd have to see more of his body before I could take him down — I was badly positioned because of the left-hand-right-hand thing.
It wouldn't be long now. You can't stand as close as this to someone and not become aware of him, and this man's senses would have started picking up the signals by this time, the almost soundless exchange of air by the lungs, the barely discernible rise in temperature as the heat radiated from the skin, and above all else the vibration of the aura itself beyond the reach of the senses but within the field of the subconscious where the alarm would be raised, the nerves galvanized and — he fired the gun and the shock smashed at the walls.
Chapter 14: Trotter
'Qingkuang yang yanzhong ma?'
'Bu hen yanzhong. Tou zhuang le yi xia.'
Water splashing.
'He says it's nothing serious. Bit of concussion.'
I think I said that's good or something.
The Chinese went on squeezing the sponge over the side of my scalp, water splashing into the bowl. It didn't hurt, couldn't feel anything, water very cold that was all.
'Are there any snakes?'
'What was that?'
'Snakes?' Then I said, 'No, don't worry.'
'Feel all right, my dear fellow?'
He was a big man, bright teeth in a black beard, very good sheepskin coat, jeep full of rocks, rocks and picks and a spade, rope, things like that, told me he'd been getting samples from the high plateau, told me his name was Trotter, taught Oriental languages at Oxford.
'Feel fine,' I said.
He'd brought me to a street clinic, Chinese scrolls hanging all over the place, pictures of roots, leaves, herbs, the front part, where he'd brought me inside, Trotter, front part rather like the apothecary's place, that was why I'd asked about the snakes, can't stand those bloody things.
'… coming through next week, overland from Kathmandu, although I don't think she was terribly keen,' another quick laugh from deep in the chest, talking, now I thought back a bit, about his wife. 'She doesn't trust the CAAC, even though I told her it's the safest airline in the world, never flies in bad weather. This man's extremely good, don't worry, best in Lhasa, none of your Western medicine here…'
Tuned him out, had to think, but not easy, kept seeing the flash.
I would say he'd fired so as to light up the little chamber and see where I was. I'd got a glimpse of him, his eyes very wide, not afraid, very alert, needing to know things, just as I did, then he'd brought the gun up and I'd gone for him.
Dark again, totally dark after the flash, place stinking of cordite, I found his right arm by feeling for it, you can say feeling for it but I mean we were spinning together trying to find the killing point, or at least I was, he seemed more interested in breaking clear so that he could threaten me from a distance with the gun and of course I.didn't want that.
Strong smell of sweat from both of us: the adrenaline was pouring into our systems and the muscles were charged, I found his gun hand and extended ki and tried for a kotegaeshi but he was very strong and I felt the gun turning toward me, into me, and that was frightening because he'd be selective, shooting to maim, to incapacitate, to put me out but keep me alive and get me to an interrogation cell and ask me where Xingyu Baibing was.
I didn't want that either. We draw the capsule but we're not going to use it if we can make a killing first, it's not just a gesture, you know, we're not a league of bloody gentlemen, fired again and the sound crashed and I wasn't certain if he'd made a hit, you don't always feel a bullet going in when the organism's functioning at this pitch because the endorphins move in immediately on the pain, fired again and I couldn't afford this so I used the flash and saw his throat exposed and made a half-fist and drove deep and he fell and dragged me down with him and my head hit the edge of the open door.
He didn't move again. I got his parka off and put mine on him and took his papers, shut the door after me, hit the wall once or twice before I found the steps and went down them, the sky reeling overhead.
There'd been a horse and cart and I was trying to get the driver to take me on board when the jeep had come past and Trotter had seen the blood on my head and put his brakes on.
The stuff was stinging, whatever he was putting on the wound.
All right, my dear fellow?'
He was watching me attentively. I said fine, yes, the stuff smelled like alcohol, suppose it was some kind of anaesthetic.
'Ta shuo ta fuede tinghao, li zhun me renwei?'
'Ta buhui you da wenti. Haiba zheme gao, tou shou shang douhui yunde. Ta shibushi shuaile yi xia?'
'If you feel,' Trotter said cheerfully, 'sort of ga-ga, don't worry about it. The altitude makes things worse than they really are. What happened, did you fall?'
'Yes. Fell on my head. Time is it?'
'I'm sorry?'
'What time is it?' My watch had got smashed.
The man, the doctor man, helped me sit up and the whole place spun, the scrolls whirling around, 'Steady as you go,' Trotter was saying, 'steady as you go, my dear fellow.'
Their hands on me, felt grateful, good of them.
'Time?'
'What?' Trotter took out a heavy gold pocket watch. 'It's twenty past eleven.'
'I need a taxi.'
I stood up and Trotter's huge hands were supporting me again, he was like an amiable black-bearded bear, 'Look, you mustn't-'
'Taxi,' I said, and managed to find my wallet. 'Ask him how much I owe, will you?' My head was clearing now, by necessity: I had to reach Xingyu Baibing by noon and we were running it close because I couldn't take the taxi all the way, I'd have to get him to drop me off half a mile short at a different monastery, the hills were full of them, some where tourists could go. I got out a Y 100 note. 'Is this enough?'
'Look, you can't go anywhere on your own like this. You need-'
'Appointment,' I said, 'extremely important, I've got an appointment.'
He studied me, worried. 'He doesn't need money; he's a friend of mine. Now let me take you to your hotel — which one, the Lhasa?'
'Several places,' I said, 'I've got several places to go. I can't keep you hanging about.' I put the Y100 note away. 'Will you thank him for me, then? I'm most grateful to you.'
He followed me out and said, 'Hop on board, then. There's a taxi up by the post office.'
It was a broken-down Austin smothered in dust, and Trotter helped me into it. 'I don't know whether you're intrepid,' he said, 'or foolhardy.' Laugh booming, gave me his card. 'If ever you need a friend… in the meantime for God's sake look after yourself.'
Thanked him for everything and slammed the door and slumped back against the torn vinyl seat.
'Where go?'
'Telephone.'
He twisted around to look at me, a wizened face wrapped in scarves. 'Number One Guest House?'
'No. I want to make a telephone call.'
'Rei. Telephone at Number One Guest House, not far.'
'Good.'
The light kept flashing so I shut my eyes but it went on doing it. He drove on the horn, this man, and one of the rear tires kept hitting the crumpled wing, what shall I say, how shall I tell it, the light fluttering on and off, it wasn't, probably, so much the actual concussion but the stress of things in the temple, you don't imagine, I hope, that we operate like bloody robots, do you, with no feelings?
He answered on the second ring.
'Yes?'
I spoke in French; it's less understood here than English. 'There's a body," I said, 'in one of the abandoned temples at the edge of the town. One of the opposition, but I put my coat on him and took his papers. If you can get someone to go along there and bury it, there won't be so much of a fuss.' I gave him the directions. 'How long will it take you to make the call?'
Some people came into the guest house, dropping baggage.
'Sixty seconds.'
'I'll call you back.'
I leaned with one finger on the contact: there were three hikers, round-eyes, crowding me, one with dark glasses on and his face peeled raw by the ultraviolet.
Then I got the operator again and asked for the Barkhor Hotel.
At first they said there was no one of that name there and I told them I'd just been talking to him and they wanted me to spell it and we were running it so very close to the noon deadline.
'Yes?'
