“And I know about the Tibetan boy he is spiriting away to Urga.”
“You knew before you sent me, didn’t you?” said Christopher.
Winterpole nodded.
“Yes. Not everything. But a little, yes. We had to be sure: our sources weren’t reliable. We thought it would be a mistake to tell you too much in case it made you look for the wrong things.
“Of course, we probably wouldn’t have done anything much about the reports we had received if it hadn’t been for Zamyatin kidnapping your boy. I still don’t understand what the point of that was. Were you able to find out anything?”
Christopher stared at him. Not “Did you find your son?” Not “Is he well?” But “Were you able to find out anything?” Information that was all that interested Winterpole. Anything else was superfluous.
“Yes,” said Christopher, “I found out something.” But how could he begin to explain it to a man like Winterpole.
“Well? What was he up to? How did your boy come into his schemes?”
“As a pawn that’s all you need to know. William was part of a deal Zamyatin made. What he really wanted was the Tibetan boy.
His name is Sarndup. Dorje Samdup Rinpoche.”
“And who is he precisely? Some sort of incarnation, is he? Is that what Zamyatin’s up to?”
“Yes.” Christopher signed.
“The boy is the Maidari Buddha.
That means he can be proclaimed ruler of Mongolia in place of the present Khutukhtu. That’s what Zamyatin’s gone to Mongolia for.
To make the boy a god.”
Winterpole was silent. He seemed to be weighing up what Christopher had told him, fitting it into some scheme of his own.
“I see,” he said.
“It all makes sense now. All we have to do is find Zamyatin.”
“That’s easier said than done. I’ve lost them Zamyatin, William, Samdup. They’re half-way to Urga by now. Before anyone can catch up with them, Zamyatin will have a cordon of Red soldiers round Samdup and a ringside ticket for the coronation in his own pocket.”
“I wouldn’t bank on it.”
“No? Listen. I lost them at Hadda-ulan, all three of them.
Zamyatin had made a rendezvous with someone in Kanchow about three days ago. He’s well on his way to Urga by now. Or .” He hesitated.
“Yes,” prompted Winterpole casually.
“Or he’s on his way to Moscow.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” said Winterpole.
“I’d already heard about Zamyatin’s rendezvous. He’s made contact with a man called Udinskii - a Russian and a fellow-Bolshevik who was until recently involved in the fur and wool trade at Urga He worked for a Danish- American company called Andersen and Myer Udinskii was waiting for him in Kanchow for over a month He’s to be Zamyatin’s courier to Urga. He has a motor-truck, a strong one capable of making the journey across the Gobi in a matter of days.
They’ll be in Urga any day now, I expect. Or at least .. ‘ Winterpole paused, as though the well of his omniscience had suddenly dried up “At least?” repeated Christopher.
“He’ll probably not try to go straight to the city. Things have changed in Mongolia since all this started. The Chinese have been pushed out. The man in charge now is a White Russian general called von Ungern Sternberg. Baron Roman von Ungern Sternberg, to be precise Now, there’s a mouthful for you.
“Ungern was pushed out of Siberia last year by the Bolsheviks.
He and his men were almost the last of the Whites. They made for Mongolia, picking up reinforcements on the way. At the start of February, they took control of Urga. Ungern rescued the Living Buddha from the Chinese and put him back on the throne. But the real ruler is Ungern himself.
“So, you see, Zamyatm can’t just turn up in Urga, with or without some incarnation. Von Ungern Sternberg isn’t the sort of man to make a deal with the Bolsheviks. And Mongolia is turning into the sort of place sensible people steer clear of. If Zamyatin has any sense, he’ll go somewhere else. What do you think? Has he got any sense?”
Christopher leaned across the table.
“For God’s sake, this isn’t a game of chess! Zamyatin thinks he can conquer Asia with this child. Don’t you see? Sense doesn’t enter into any of it. The stakes are too high.”
“Then he’ll go to Urga. In that case, he’ll have to be bloody careful. Ungern’s busy killing everyone in sight: Russians, Jews, runaway Chinese. And now any White armies that are left in Siberia are moving south to join him. Kazagrandi is in Uliassutai;
Kazantzev has taken Kobdo; Kaigorodov has been reported in Altai; and in the West Bakitch has joined up with Dutov and Annenkov. It’s a madhouse, Christopher. Ungern Sternberg believes he’s a reincarnation of the Mongolian god of war. He’s convinced half the population of the country of that fact. That means he’s answerable to no-one.”
Winterpole paused to take a cigarette-box from his coat pocket.
He opened it and offered a cigarette to Christopher.
“No thank you.”
Winterpole took one for himself and lit it.
“So, you see,” he continued, ‘that with Ungern in control of Urga, neither Zamyatin nor Udinskii can risk heading there directly. So I think they’ll make for somewhere outside the city to dump the motor and Udinskii. That’ll leave Zamyatin free to do the rest of the journey with just the two boys for company.”
Christopher felt a chill go through him. Wouldn’t it be even more convenient for the Russian to dump William as well?
“Why are you here, Winterpole?”
“To keep an eye on you, of course.”
“That’s very touching. And I suppose you intend keeping an eye on Zamyatin as well, while you’re at it.”
Winterpole blew out a thin jet of smoke.
“Yes, of course. He has to be stopped. And you, I imagine, would still like to find your son. You’ve done very well so far, but it’s time to get a move on. I want to get to Urga before Zamyatin does.”
“And exactly how do you propose to do that?”
“The same way as Zamyatin. By motor car. I have one waiting at the Dao T’ai’s. I bought it from some Danes in Kalgan. It’s a Fiat, specially built for country like this. We can do the journey to Urga faster than Udinskii and his truck.”
“And when we get there? What then?”
“We sit tight and wait for Zamyatin to make his move. Ungern will co-operate with us. Zamyatin in exchange for your son. And the Tibetan boy, of course. Ungern’s position is precarious: a promise of British help isn’t something he can turn down. I’ll send him an official telegraph tomorrow, through the normal diplomatic channels. He’ll be told to expect us, to offer us protection.
Zamyatin’s been outfoxed, Christopher. He’s walking straight into a trap.”
Christopher looked at Winterpole as though he were far, far away. His dress, his cigarettes, his self- importance were all products of another world. He was a schemer, but he knew precious little of the world his schemes were made for.
“I wouldn’t bank on it,” said Christopher.
True to his word, Winterpole sent a telegram early the next morning. It was a complicated procedure the message had to be routed to Peking through Lanchow, then forwarded to Urga, where it would be received at Ungern Sternberg’s splendid new telegraph office. Even at the best of times, there were unavoidable delays, errors in transmission, and, as often as not, cut lines. And these were not the best of times not in China, not in Mongolia.
