When a building has been declared unsafe, you don’t waste time papering over the cracks and putting nails in the plasterboard.
You knock it down. And you use the rubbish as a foundation for a new building. Don’t you see? it doesn’t matter if blood is spilt or sons lose their fathers or mothers lose their daughters. They will all become rubble for the foundations.”
He looked at Christopher with a look almost of entreaty.
“You can choose which you want to be,” he said, ‘part of the rubble or part of the new edifice.”
“What if I want to be neither?” Christopher asked. The handle of the knife was out of his boot. He began to ease the blade out, a fraction at a time.
“You do not have that choice. You must be one or the other.
That has been decided for you by the dialectic of history. None of us has any say in the matter. We can only choose which side to throw in our fortunes with.”
“Did any of the monks you killed tonight have a choice? Were they asked whether they wanted to join your revolution?”
Zamyatin shook his head slowly. He was like a man who carried a heavy weight on his shoulders. He saw himself as a man of sorrows.
“This is not the revolution, Major Wylam. This is not even the first stirrings of the revolution. There is no urban proletariat here, no capitalist system to be overthrown. Only gods and demons and priests.”
He sighed, as though he had spent his life bowing and scraping at dark altars, lighting candles at the feet of old gods.
“They need new leaders,” he went on, ‘men who will lead them away from their superstitions. You want to give them schools and law courts and cricket pitches. But they already have books and laws and games. What they need is freedom. Freedom from oppression. Freedom from injustice. Freedom from want.”
“And you will give them that?”
“We will make it possible. They will grant freedom to themselves.”
“What about the freedom to choose?”
Zamyatin’s eyes flashed.
“They will have that along with the rest. But first they have to be weaned from their feudalism. That will be a painful process.
Many will die before it is finished. But every death will bring the masses a step closer to liberation. It is inevitable. The forces of history are on our side.”
Like a true believer with his rosary or prayer-wheel, Zamyatin muttered the formulae of his own liturgy, invoking History in his days of gracelessness. Christopher remembered now what Winterpole had said to him: The Bolsheviks speak of historical inevitability in the way your Jesuits talk of perfect obedience. History has no feelings: no pity, no love, no hate, no elation, no bitterness. It moves on an appointed course. And God help those who get in its way.
Christopher felt trapped, morally and emotionally. He had come so far to save his son, but to do so he would have to betray innocent men and women elsewhere. Zamyatin would not be content to be fobbed off with a few crumbs of insignificant information. He would find ways of checking whatever Christopher told him, he would have questions to which he would expect reasonable answers. And when Christopher had completed his betrayals, what guarantee did he have that the Russian would honour his word?
People were pawns to him, and Christopher did not imagine for a moment that Zamyatin would want to waste time ensuring his safety or that of his son.
“I need time to think,” he said. He had the knife now. He held it by the tips of his fingers, ready to leap on the Russian.
Zamyatin pursed his lips. The candles were burning low. Beyond the windows, night was in control.
“I can’t give you time,” he said.
“I have none to give. You will have to make your mind up tonight. Tomorrow I leave for Mongolia. The Tibetan boy is about to be made a god. Your son comes with me, though whether he survives the journey or not depends on you. I hope you understand me, Major Wylam.”
“I understand.” Christopher stood up.
“I will see you are taken to your room. If there is anything you need, the steward will see it is brought to you.”
“Tell me,” Christopher said, ‘why did you kill so many people?
You had made an arrangement. You had what you wanted. Was it necessary to massacre them?”
Zamyatin stood up and took a step towards Christopher.
“Your father went back on his agreement,” he said.
“He told me to leave, ordered his monks to throw me out. I rather feared something of the sort might happen when I heard Tsarong Rinpoche had brought you here. Your father allowed emotions to creep in. Half a lifetime subduing his passions and then a moment’s inadvertence. He was as much a child as any of us. I had no time to argue. Do not make the same mistake he did.”
Christopher decided he would not. He took firm hold of the knife, lifted it, and sprang for Zamyatin. The blade slashed through the Russian’s sleeve, tearing the cloth away from his arm, as he spun himself sideways. Christopher fell flat on the cushions, righting himself as he toppled, holding the knife away from himself, aiming it at Zamyatin.
The Russian had landed on his side awkwardly. Cushions impeded his movements, getting in his way as he struggled to wriggle away from Christopher. Christopher made a second lunge-.
Zamyatin caught his arm in his left hand, gasping as he forced the point of the knife back from his chest. It was less than an inch away. Christopher fought to drive it home, bearing down heavily on his opponent. He felt rage explode in him like a sudden storm, giving him strength, but weakening his judgement. He swore as Zamyatin brought a knee up, thudding into his stomach and throwing him backwards. He toppled into a row of candles, knocking them over on to the cushions. A piece of fine cloth caught fire, flaring up and setting light to the cushion beside it.
Christopher grunted as the Russian rolled over on top of him.
He still held the knife, but his arm was pinned down by Zamyatin’s knee. In spite of appearances, the Russian was a trained fighter.
Christopher brought his left arm up to his opponent’s throat, pushing him up and back. But Zamyatin’s own hands were free.
He struck Christopher hard against the side of his neck, causing him to stiffen and drop the knife from nerveless fingers.
Zamyatin picked up the knife and brought it down slowly until it touched Christopher’s neck. It pricked the skin, drawing blood.
Behind them, the fire was taking hold of the cushions. An acrid smoke had begun to billow round them, making them both splutter.
The Russian intended to kill him. Christopher could see it in his eyes. He was breathing heavily, the simple fury of pain giving way to a deeper rage. It was suddenly clear to Christopher that Zamyatin hated him. He remembered the look in Zamyatin’s eyes when he had entered, the animosity that filled them. And he realized the reason for it. The Russian, abandoned by his own father, hated him because of his love for William. History be damned, he thought, the bastard’s just trying to get back at his father.
Suddenly, there was a sound of running footsteps. Someone had seen the flames. A group of monks ran up. One of them had had the presence of mind to rip down a heavy hanging, which he tossed on to the flames. The others stamped at isolated pockets of flame or threw untouched cushions aside, out of the path of the fire.
Within less than a minute, the blaze had been brought under control.
With so many candles extinguished and without the fire, it was dark in the chorten hall. Zamyatin remained kneeling on Christopher, the knife hard against his throat. A thin trickle of blood ran down Christopher’s neck to the floor.
The monks fell silent and gathered in a tight circle about the two men. Christopher sensed the struggle in Zamyatin’s mind. He wanted to kill Christopher; but he knew the value of the information he could obtain from him. Gradually, his breathing grew lighter and his grip slackened on the handle of the knife. Abruptly, he took the
