He stayed for several weeks: his journey had been bitter, and he was tired and feverish. When he had rested and taken herbs, he was allowed to visit the Dorje Lama. They were together for a day.
Then Kah-pin-the returned and said he wished to leave. The abbot appointed my brother as a guide, to lead him back through the passes to Sikkim.”
He walked more slowly now, watching the darkness form gently about his words, calm nightfall envelop his memories of his brother.
“When he returned,” he resumed, “Tsewong and I were together a long time, talking. He said that the pee-ling teacher had converted him to his faith, that he had become a Christian.” He paused and looked at Christopher.
“After that, he was never easy in his mind.
It was always a burden to him, this foreign faith, this thing of a dying god and a world redeemed in blood. He had never been happy with the life of a monk, but his new beliefs did not seem to bring him happiness either. He struggled with them, as though the pity of it all devoured him from outside. Once, I think he told the abbot of his dilemma, but he would never tell me what passed between them.”
Christopher felt the silver crucifix against his chest. He guessed how deeply his father must have understood Tsewong’s position.
They walked on into the thickening darkness. Winterpole changed places with Christopher, allowing him to walk behind with Chindamani.
Chindamani kept close to Christopher, her hand in his, seeking security or warmth or something he, in his present nervousness, felt scarcely able to give. Once her lips found his briefly in the darkness as they stopped at a narrow intersection redolent with the scent of some hidden blossom. He did not know whether she had explained the nature of their relationship to Tsering; but before it grew dark he had seen that the monk still observed all the proper tokens of respect for the Ta.ra.-trulku with whom he walked.
For his own part, Christopher was finding it easier to treat Chindamani as an ordinary woman. He thought of her now with less awe than previously. Away from Dorje-la, the goddess in her was stifled somewhat. Or perhaps that is the wrong expression.
The open plains and nervous vistas of Mongolia seemed to have swept away something of the air of naive self-sufficiency that had been nourished in her by the narrow walls and shadowy, painted chambers of the monastery.
They found the enclosure with little difficulty, though Christopher could not see how it differed externally from any of the others.
Urga was in reality little more than a nomad settlement that had grown huge and permanent. Many of its temples were tent-temples that could be dismantled and moved when occasion demanded.
And the majority of dwellings were gers, circular juris of thick felt erected on thin birch lattices.
The wall was not difficult to climb: it had been designed for privacy rather than as a protection against robbers. Even in troubled times like these, theft was uncommon. They slipped over, clinging to the shadows, watching and listening for a sign of life.
Christopher carried a pistol he had found at the consulate. He held it ready, but prayed that he would not have to use it. He wanted to find Samdup and, if he was there, William, and take them out quietly, with the minimum of fuss. Zamyatin could wait. Without Samdup, Christopher suspected, he was nothing.
In front of them, barely visible, were two gers, one small and one larger than average. They loomed out of the darkness, white, dome-shaped structures that seemed somehow confined by the walls around them.
“Which one?” Christopher whispered to Tsering.
“The large one. The smaller ger will be used for storing fuel and provisions. The boy may be in the large ger or the wooden house to the rear, I’ve no way of telling. Let’s try the ger first.”
They started forward, bending low and moving on tip-toe towards the ger. The ground was hard-packed clay, firm and resilient, smothering their footsteps. No sounds came from the tent.
In the distance, dogs were barking madly as they circled the city in search of food: there was no shortage.
Suddenly, Tsering stiffened and halted, crouching lower than before. He motioned to Christopher and Chindamani to get down.
At the south-east corner of the tent, where the door was situated, they could make out the dim figure of a man. He was leaning on something that could have been a rifle, and seemed to be keeping watch.
“Go round the back,” Tsering hissed.
“Wait for me there.”
He moved off into the darkness without a sound.
“You two go,” whispered Winterpole.
“I’ll go with the monk, keep him covered while he carries out a reconnaissance.”
Winterpole vanished after Tsering. Christopher and Chindamani slipped round the curved side of the tent. It was even darker here. They crouched down, listening intently.
No more than five minutes passed before Tsering returned, although it seemed much longer.
“There’s only one guard,” he whispered.
“We can get in through the bottom of the yurt it’s only held down by blocks of wood for the winter.”
He bent down and began to remove pieces of wood from the khayaa, the bottom layer of thick felt that formed the rim of thejurt.
Christopher started to help him.
“Where’s Winterpole?” he asked.
Tsering looked at him.
“Isn’t he here?” he asked.
“No, he went with you, to keep you covered.”
Tsering put the block of wood he had been holding to the ground.
“He didn’t come with me,” he said.
“I thought he stayed with you.”
They looked round, but Winterpole was nowhere to be seen.
“I don’t like it,” Christopher said to Chindamani.
“I knew he wasn’t to be trusted. Where do you think he has gone?”
“He could be anywhere. But I think we should be quick here.”
She bent down and helped them remove the last of the wooden blocks. It was the work of moments to lift a section of the khayaa.
A dim light came from inside the yurt
Christopher went in first, holding his pistol ready. Tsering and Chindamani followed. Neither of them was armed.
The interior of thejMrt was conventional in design, with a central hearth in which a large fire was lit. In front of the fire lay carpets and a triangular arrangement of cushions. Cabinets and chests stood along the walls, and to the right of the door was an elaborate Buddhist altar, stacked with images and other ornaments. Only a few lights provided any illumination.
Christopher crept forward on hands and knees. At first the yurt seemed empty, then he made out the shape of two small figures seated on cushions near the door. His heart gave a leap as he recognized William and, beside him, Samdup. A Mongol guard had been placed to watch over the two children. His back was towards Christopher, and he appeared to have dozed off”. The barrel of a rifle jutted out above his left shoulder.
Christopher continued to creep forward. Suddenly, he froze.
William had caught sight of him. Desperately, Christopher motioned to the boy to keep still. But William could not contain his excitement. He reached a hand out to Samdup and pointed eagerly in Christopher’s direction.
What Christopher feared happened. The guard’s attention was drawn by the boy’s sudden activity. He stood and, turning, caught sight of Christopher and his companions.
The guard shouted and raised his rifle. He fired too hastily, without taking proper aim. The shot missed Christopher by inches, giving him time to move into a crouching position. As the guard aimed for his second shot, Christopher fired. The man staggered, dropped his rifle, and fell back on to the altar, sending its contents crashing in all directions.
The door-flap opened suddenly and the guard who had been keeping watch
at the entrance came running in. Christopher fired before the
newcomer’s eyes had time to adjust to the light inside
“Quickly!” he shout
ed, running towards the boys.
“We’ve got to get out of here before someone comes.”
But in spite of his sense of urgency, he had to stop to hold William and assure himself that his son was still alive. Chindamani came running up behind him, taking Samdup into her arms and lifting him into the air.
There was a sound of voices outside. Christopher put William down and ran to the doorway.
“Come on,” he said, reaching for William’s hand.
“Let’s go!”
But William looked up at him, tears in his eyes.
“I can’t!” he cried.
“Look!”
Christopher looked down at the spot to which William was pointing. There was an iron shackle on the boy’s ankle, to which a chain had been attached. The chain was pegged fast to a heavy chest a few feet away. Samdup had been chained in the same way.
Christopher let out a cry of rage. He bent down and picked up the guard’s rifle, lifting it as a hammer to break the chain away from the chest.
At that moment, there was a sound of running feet outside. The door-flap was raised and several men came in. They were all armed. The last one held the flap up. A moment later, Nikolai Zamyatin stepped into thejwf.
Christopher dropped the rifle and his pistol. Zamyatin smiled.
“You’re just in time for the party,” he said.
“The festival begins in a few hours’ time. I have a celebration planned.”
He had coughed up blood so many times recently, the sight of yet more in the bowl scarcely frightened him. It made him angry more than anything, angry yet impotent, for it was his own body that was in a state of rebellion, and he could hardly order himself taken out and shot. He intended to die on the battlefield, even if he had to drag himself there on his hands and knees; but each time he expectorated blood now, a tiny stab of doubt entered his mind.
Perhaps the thing that was eating his lungs away would finally cheat him of the hero’s death he craved. There was no glory in spitting this pink fluid into a steel bowl.
The boy had slipped through his net. From reports now being received, it was clear that he and the man with whom he was travelling had made their way clear across the vast plains between Uliassutai and Urga, and that, in all probability, they were already here, within the city, indistinguishable among its multitudes, secret, hidden, walking down darkened alleyways in the dead of night.
He had been sent heads, dozens of tiny heads, enough to fill ten copper chests and more, but still the boy had escaped him. The heads had arrived daily, sewn up in sacks of leather or hessian, the blood on them dried and sticky, and on their heels reports had come of sightings further east or talk of the boy’s presence in scattered yurts far from the beaten track. The boy had eluded his best efforts to hunt him down, and now he was making ready to challenge him here, at the heart of his kingdom. It was time he saw the Khutukhtu again. Time he warned him of the consequences if the boy could not be found in the next forty-eight hours.
He hastily covered the bowl with a cloth as the sound of feet approached the door of his yurt. He heard the guard come to attention, then a voice tell him to stand at ease. The door-flap opened and two men entered: Sepailov and a European in a white suit. Why couldn’t Sepailov deal with these men on his own? He knew he needed no permission to have a man flogged, or for that matter, hanged.
Sepailov saluted rather sloppily, Ungern thought. The colonel’s uniform was soiled and torn in places. For that alone he should be shot, Ungern decided. He hated the Russians, above all the military men. All he wanted was to wage war with his Burials and Chahars, his Tartars and Kalmaks. The rest could go to hell for all he cared. They were just passengers, and some of them weren’t even paying their fare.
“Yes, Colonel Sepailov?” he said.
“Who is this man? Why are you bringing him to me?”
Sepailov swallowed hard. He noticed the bowl on the table, near a pile of papers he had given the baron earlier for his signature.
Ungern thought no-one but himself and the camp physician knew of his ailment. But Sepailov knew. And he also knew that when Ungern had been coughing blood his behaviour became even more erratic than normal.
Winterpole did not wait for the colonel to make his introduction.
“My name is Major Simon Winterpole of British Military Intelligence. You may remember that we met rather more than a year ago, General, when I visited you at Dauria. I was on an official mission to Ataman Semenov at the time. We were providing assistance to your people in our mutual struggle against the Bolsheviks.”
“You will have to forgive me, Major, but I do not remember you. Life was very busy at Dauria. I saw dozens of people every day. There were representatives from several foreign powers. Now, perhaps you could explain to me just what an agent of British Military Intelligence is doing in Urga. Without permission.”
“But I sent a telegram to you almost two weeks ago. You must have known to expect me.”
Ungern shook his head.
“No, sir, I have received no telegram from you or from anyone else associated with British Intelligence.”
He reached inside his tunic and drew out a silver cigarette case.
The family monogram had worn down badly, he noticed. Perhaps it was just as well; he would certainly have no children. He took out a cigarette and lit it quickly, seeking to disguise the tremor in his hand.
“I see.” Winterpole began to wonder if he had done the right thing in coming to Ungern directly.
“Well? I’m waiting for your explanation. I am a busy man, Major. At present, all I know about you is that you are a self confessed spy who has been operating in an area under my jurisdiction for an unspecified period. I think you have some explaining to do.”
“I assure you, General, that I am not here on an espionage mission. My own position within Military Intelligence is entirely administrative.”
Ungern exhaled a snake of scented grey smoke.
“Meaning that you get others to do your dirty work for you.”
“Meaning that I am authorized to enter into negotiations with representatives of foreign powers. Meaning that I have come to Mongolia with the express purpose of making you an offer of financial and military assistance on behalf of the British Crown.”
The general half raised an eyebrow.
“Indeed? I take it you carry with you credentials.”
“Of course.” Winterpole started to reach inside his jacket.
“They will not be necessary for the moment, Major. Now, I would like to know how you come to pay me a visit in such a hasty manner. This is not normal procedure, as I am sure you are aware.”
Winterpole gave what he hoped looked like a smile.
“I came here tonight in order to bring you information. Information that I believe is important to you. Concerning a boy. Two boys to be precise.”
He saw he had hit the mark. Ungern’s flimsy composure visibly cracked.
He started as though the Englishman had raised a hand to strike him.
“Go on,” he said. With a shaking hand, he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.
“I know where you may find the boys .. . if you are quick. I can lead you to them tonight. If you are lucky, you will also be able to lay your hands on Comintern’s principal agent in this region. And perhaps more than a few of his Mongol confederates.”
Ungern held his breath very still. If the Englishman was telling the truth .. .
“And you,” he said, ‘what would you want in return for this information?”
“Your co-operation. In return for military and financial help.
Great Britain will recognize you or anyone you choose to appoint as the Mongolian head of state. We are willing to establish you here on the borders of Russia in readiness for the day when you are ready to go back to claim your own. Tonight’s information is merely a start, a token of intent, no more. Take it or leave it, it’s your choice.”
“Where are these boys?”
>
“In Ta Khure. They’re being kept in a compound two streets away from the Tokchin temple. There’s a large yurt what I believe the Mongols call a “twelve-Mana”. And a summer-house behind it.”
Ungern looked past Winterpole.
“Do you know it, Sepailov?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve been keeping an eye on it for a little while now.
It sounds very likely to me.”
“Good. Send a detachment of men round there straight away.
They’re to take everyone alive if possible, except for the two boys.
Have them shot on the spot, I don’t want anyone having second thoughts.
You’d best send Russians for this job.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll see to it at once.” He saluted and turned to the Colonel.
Sepailov turned back again.
“Before you leave, have this man taken out and shot. Do it yourself if you have time.”
Winterpole spluttered, then drew himself erect.
“May I ask what is the meaning of this? I’m a representative of His Majesty’s government. I have diplomatic immunity. Your behaviour is most improper, General.”
Ungern stood up and leaned across the desk. Winterpole blustered to a halt. He had joined his army of glass, and found-Tiimself as brittle and vulgar at heart as any of them. When glass breaks, it shatters, it does not splinter like wood.
“You are not a diplomat, Major. You are, by your own admission, an intelligence agent. Whether you are a spy or an administrator of spies, it is not for me to judge. My task here is to eliminate three groups: Bolsheviks, Jews, and foreign agents.”
“For God’s sake, General. We’re on the same side!”
“Not any longer,” Ungern told him.
“What do you mean “not any longer”?”
“Just that. Your government has just entered into a trade agreement with the Soviets’ it was signed in March. Surely you cannot pretend you did not know.”
“I assure you, I .. .”
“Your Mr. Lloyd George signed it alongside Krasin, the Soviet representative, on the sixteenth of March. The Russian Trade Delegation has already been granted permanent status in London.
The next step will be diplomatic recognition. Do you tell me you were ignorant of this?”
The Ninth Buddha Page 40
