The Khutukhtu snorted loudly.
“The boy should not be sleeping. He should be in my private chapel, praying, meditating, and generally preparing himself for his proclamation. The formalities must be observed. The boy must not go cold to his destiny.”
He paused and inhaled a stream of smoke. He remembered the days before his own enthronement as Khutukhtu: the vigils, the offerings, the fasts, the long, dull hours of liturgical recitals. Such a terrible waste of time. But he wanted the boy away from here before trouble started.
“This no longer concerns you.” Zamyatin creased his brows, more in irritation than anger. Tonight, he would not be angry.
Mongolia was his. Next month, he would sit in a gilded room at the Kremlin and dine with Lenin and Zinoviev as their equal.
“I am the boy’s tutor now,” said the Khutukhtu.
“Who better than I to train him? I mean to teach him everything I know. Don’t worry I’ll spare him my vices, if you spare him yours. He won’t need them. But he will need my experience; and my memories. I tell you that he will need prayer more than sleep tonight. And meditation more than prayer. Or do you intend to act as spiritual director to your new ruler? I hardly think you’re qualified.”
Zamyatin said nothing. Whether the boy slept or prayed meant nothing to him. So long as the child was pliable. So long as he was fit to be paraded in the proper regalia and knew how to make the right gestures tomorrow. He already had men scouring the storerooms of the palace for the clothes the Khutukhtus wore as children.
From somewhere in the distance, the sound of shouting came, followed by silence. A door slammed, heavy and muffled. Then, quite distinct, between the ticks of a clock, a series of shots rang out, clear and perfect in the stillness of the night.
Zamyatin ordered two of the guards to the door.
“See what’s happening,” he said, ‘and get back to me as quickly as possible. I’ll stay here with our prisoners. Hurry.” He took a revolver from his pocket and checked it.
The guards hurried through the door, taking their rifles with them. No-one spoke. The counter-attack had come sooner than expected, and Zamyatin’s men were thin on the ground.
Less than a minute later, the guards returned looking visibly frightened.
“An attack. Von Ungern Sternberg. He has the palace surrounded.”
“How many men?”
“Impossible to say, but the men at the gate think we’re outnumbered.”
“Any news of Sukebator and his men?”
“They’re tied up at the radio station. Ungern’s Chahar units have them pinned down.”
Zamyatin turned to Bodo.
“Think, man! Is there another way out of here? A secret passage?
This place must be riddled with them.”
The lama shook his head.
“They were blocked up by the Chinese when they held the
Khutukhtu prisoner. They’ve not been opened up again.
Except .. .”
“Yes?”
“Except for one, I think. Behind the treasure rooms. It’s better hidden than the others There’s a tunnel behind it leading to the Tsokchin. Once we’re there I can arrange for horses.”
Zamyatin thought quickly. If they could make it to Allan Bulak, where the provisional government was located, there was still a chance that they might join up with the Bolshevik forces moving in from the north. He had the Khutukhtu and the boy. All the aces were still in his hands.
“Quickly then,” he shouted.
“Lead the way. You and you’ he pointed at the two guards ‘keep our rear covered. Hurry up.”
The sound of shooting was growing louder. Ungern could be here in a matter of minutes.
The little group was assembled quickly, Bodo in front, then the prisoners, followed by Zamyatin and his guards.
The corridor outside the Khutukhtu’s study took them directly into his treasure rooms. They were like Aladdin’s cave, crammed from end to end with bric-a-brac of every description, the product of a lifetime’s obsession.
Chandeliers hung everywhere like patterns of webbed and shattered ice. Vases from China, rugs from Persia, peacock feathers from India, two dozen samovars of every size and style from Russia, pearl necklaces from Japan all jostled each other in cosmopolitan disorder. The Khutukhtu had ordered goods in multiples: a dozen of these, a score of those, sometimes the entire contents of a trading house during a visit to Mai-mai-ch’eng. It was a vast jumble sale to which no buyers ever came.
In one room, there were long rows of guns in glass cases: rook rifles, sniders, Remington repeaters, breech- loading pistols, carbines some purely ornamental, others quite deadly, all of them unfired. In the next was the Khutukhtu’s vast collection of mechanical inventions. There were dolls at a small piano that could play Strauss waltzes one after the other without ever tiring;
a monkey that could climb a pole and another that could spin round and round a horizontal bar; tin soldiers that marched, motor cars that rolled on painted wheels, ships that bobbed on metal seas, birds that sang and flapped their wings or hopped along branches of gold tipped with leaves of emerald all still and silent and rusting now.
Zamyatin hurried them along too quickly to see anything very clearly. They could hear loud explosions from the front of the building now, and shooting had opened up on both sides. Chindamani slipped and fell against one of the cases. At first, Christopher thought she had hurt herself. But after a few moments, she picked herself up and took Christopher’s hand. He thought she had picked up something from the case, but it was too late for him to see what its contents had been.
William kept falling behind. He was tired and sick, and running exhausted him; but he would not let Christopher pick him up and carry him. Zamyatin pushed and prodded the boy, urging him to make haste. When Christopher made to defend him, the Russian just waved his pistol at him and told him to keep going. Christopher knew the only reason Zamyatin kept him alive was the thought that he might come in useful as a bargaining counter.
They reached the last room. It was a plain room panelled in dark wood and hung with rich Tibetan tapestries. Zamyatin hustled everyone inside and shut the door.
“Where’s the way out?” he shouted.
Bodo scrambled over a pile of cushions at the rear of the room and pulled back one of the tapestries. The entrance to the tunnel had been concealed with very great skill, having been set into the panelling without any obvious join. It was opened by means of a small lever in the floor. Bodo pulled the lever and the panels slid back with a low grinding sound.
“What are you waiting for?” cried Zamyatin.
“Let’s go!”
Bodo stepped into the entrance. Chindamani stepped up, followed by the Khutukhtu and Samdup. Suddenly, there was a cry from near the main door.
“I’m not going into another tunnel! Please, father, don’t let him make me!”
It was William. The sight of the dark opening had awakened in him memories of the tunnels beneath Dorje- la. He hung back, clinging to Christopher.
“What does he say?” demanded Zamyatin.
“What’s wrong with him?” The man was growing terrified now. He was so close to victory, yet the sounds of defeat were all about him: guns, high explosives, the child whimpering.
“He says he’s frightened. He won’t go into your blasted tunnel.
You know what happened at Dorje-la. For God’s sake, let him stay here with me. He’s no danger to you.”
“And let you show Ungern straight to our exit? No-one stays. If he won’t come, I’ll shoot him here and be
