“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 shouted, 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
