knife away and stood.
“Get up!” he snapped.
Christopher rose painfully to his feet.
Zamyatin looked at him.
“You have a few hours, Wylam. What you decide to do is up to you. But rest assured that your son will suffer if you refuse to cooperate. I want names, addresses, codes, and methods of operation.
I require full details of all intelligence your people have gathered on the Indian communists. I’d like to know about what your man Bell is up to in Tibet. You can fill in the rest yourself. Give me as much or as little as you want: your boy will be treated accordingly.
So much as one little trick, so much as a single false lead, and I’ll slit the little bastard’s throat with your own knife.”
He turned and spoke rapidly to one of the monks.
“Take him to his apartment. Lock the doors and put guards on them. If there’s a secret entrance, find it and block it up. If he escapes, I’ll hold you personally responsible and, by God, you’ll pay for it. Bring him back first thing in the morning.”
His voice echoed among the tombs and died away. It would be morning in another seven hours.
William was frightened. The sensation was, of course, nothing new to the boy. He had been frightened ever since that moment when the men had come for him after church. Time had ceased to have any meaning since then, and he could not have said how long had passed. All he knew was that what had started as a bad dream had become an unending nightmare out of which he desperately longed to awaken.
He remembered every incident of the past weeks with a vividness beyond his years: the murder of Father Middleton, the men bundling him into the car, the mad drive through snow and fog to a port somewhere. Then they had transferred to a boat, the three men still bad-tempered and uncommunicative. He had been particularly frightened of the third man, the thin one who gave the orders. They had sailed into a storm, almost foundering among waves the height of houses. He had no idea where they had landed.
Only the thin man had accompanied him the rest of the way.
An aeroplane had been waiting for them at a field not far from the beach where they had come ashore. They had flown north at first he knew how to work out directions from the sun and the pole star and then due east. From what he knew of geography, he thought they were flying over Russia. They landed often to refuel and several times to carry out repairs on the aircraft. After a while, they began to go south.
He had been exhausted on their arrival in India, but he had hated the orphanage they took him to, even though it meant he could sleep in a bed. He could never think of the Reverend Carpenter without a shudder. The journey afterwards had been terrible. Mishig, the man in charge of the small caravan, was a brute, and he had made William’s life a misery.
In the monastery, nothing seemed real to him. Everywhere, there were frightening pictures and statues, everywhere thin men with shaven heads who stared at him as though he were something in a circus. The old man who spoke English and said he was William’s grandfather had told him not to be afraid, but he could not help it: he was alone and bewildered and lost. Not even the other boy, who spoke to him in a language he could not understand, or the lady, who had spoken to him with the help of his grandfather, had been able to calm his fears.
But tonight had been the worst time of all. They had come for him and the other boy, Samdup, in the middle of the night, dragging them over that terrible bridge. He had seen men being killed, dozens of them. Then he had seen his father brought in, and that had destroyed his last hope. If his father was in the hands of these people too, then who was going to come for him, to rescue him?
Chindamani had persuaded Tsarong Rinpoche to let her take the children to her room. Two guards had been posted at the door, neither of whom was known to her. The Rinpoche had left with a warning that he would be back early in the morning.
Her old nurse Sonam was there. Chindamani had found her hiding beneath the bed where she had left her. The old ama-la had been Chindamani’s constant companion since the day the little girl had been brought to Dorje-la from the village in Tsang province where she had been born. That had been sixteen years ago.
Sonam had been an old woman even then; now she was positively ancient. She had served two incarnations of the Lady Tara, bathing and feeding them as infants, passing on her love to them as children, sorting out the problems of puberty, and listening to their troubles as women. Twenty years ago she had embalmed Chindamani’s predecessor and clothed her in her finest garments before placing her in the small chorten long reserved for her in the Tara temple. Four years later they had brought Chindamani to her, a tiny girl pathetically clutching a wooden doll and pleading to be sent back to her mother. The doll was still there, well worn and unlovely now. So was the little girl.
“What can we do, ama-la?” Chindamani asked the old woman.
Her own initiative seemed to have evaporated since the moment she stood in Thondrup Chophel’s room watching the hanging bodies bob in the shadows. She had told Sonam almost nothing of what she had seen, enough to satisfy the old woman’s curiosity but not enough to frighten her.
“Do71 What can we do?” splutterd the old crone. Little black eyes darted about like fish in a face as dry as parchment. She still wore her hair in the traditional one hundred and eight plaits, but over the years the plaits had become thinner and thinner, not to say greasier and greasier. Her mouth had long been untenanted, but she never grumbled, she had lived on tea and tsampa all her life and had never tasted let alone craved for either flesh or fish.
Between her hands she held a prayer-wheel, which she was nervously turning with her gnarled fingers.
“You say Tsarong Rinpoche has deposed the pee-ling trulku,” she went on.
“Pah! That won’t last long. The pee-ling’s more than a match for him.
I knew that Tsarong when he came here as a boy.
He was always a nasty bit of work. He used to pull the wings off flies, then the legs, then the heads. A methodical little bastard he was. When he was beaten for it, he’d say he’d done the flies a favour perhaps they’d be reincarnated as something better:
dragonflies or butterflies or bats. He’s vicious, but he isn’t
popular.
They won’t stand for him. The Dorje Lama will soon be back in charge.”
Chindamani sighed heavily. She hadn’t wanted to cause the old woman pain. But she had to know something of the truth.
“The Dorje-Lama is dead, ama-la,” she whispered.
“Dead? How?”
Chindamani explained what Tsarong Rinpoche had told her. It was not easy, and when she came to an end she found she was crying. Samdup watched her, the sense of horror and outrage growing in him.
“Murdered?” Sonam repeated.
“Oe! This will cost Tsarong Rinpoche a hundred lifetimes! He’ll come back a wingless fly, wait and see And if he does, I’ll stamp on him.” But the anger and the raillery were a facade. Deep down, the old woman’s world was being smashed. She had taken time to get used to the pee-ling trulku, but in the end she had grown fond of him.
“We’re all in danger, ama-la. There’s a man here from the north, a Burial. He wants to take Lord Samdup and the pee-ling trulku’s grandson away.”
“And you, my jewel what do they want with you?” The old nurse stretched out a leathery hand and stroked Chindamani’s hair gently.
“I think Tsarong Rinpoche will have me killed as well,” answered Chindamani as calmly as she could.
“He knows that, if I chose, I could still rally the monks round me, that I could put an end to his games. But he won’t allow that. Nor will the Burial.” She paused, taking Sonam’s hand in hers and clasping it hard.
“They won’t touch you!” exclaimed Samdup, rising and crossing to Chindamani.
“I won’t let them. They need me. I won’t do what they say if they hurt you.”
Chindamani took the boy’s hand.
“Thank you Samdup. I know you would do everything you could. But you wouldn’t be able to stop them. Tsarong Rinpoche is frightened of me. I have power he does not possess: I’m an incarnation, he is not.”
