Charlie’s Apprentice

both, ahead of the older man. There was a lot of activity around the embassy compound, a scattering of soldiers as well as militia. In a city where bicycles are the accepted mode of transport, so many official black limousines had attracted a curious group of onlookers at the perimeter fence. There was a polite parting of those closest to the gates, for them to enter.

The room in which the pre-lunch reception was being held was immediately to the left of the vestibule, overlooking a checkerboard garden. There was a small receiving line just inside the door. Names were announced in both English and Mandarin by a diplomat comparing the invitations with an official list. Snow courteously fell behind Father Robertson as they were greeted by the principal guests, further introduced by the ambassador to the junior minister and trade officials beyond.

Snow accepted orange juice from a statued waiter holding a tray of drinks: Father Robertson took Scotch. The elderly man nodded across the room and said: ‘There’s Samuels.’

Snow was already searching the room, looking for Walter Foster. He followed Father Robertson’s direction. Peter Samuels was a dark-haired, saturnine man whom Snow guessed to be almost as tall as himself. At that moment Samuels looked in their direction: there was no recognition or acknowledgement. As quickly as he had focused on them, the political officer turned away. Still unable to find the man he really wanted, Snow indicated Samuels and said: ‘I’m going to talk to him: put my side of the case.’

‘It’ll look too obvious, approaching him so quickly.’

‘It won’t look like anything of the sort!’ dismissed Snow, moving off through the crowd, glad to separate himself from the other priest.

Samuels saw him coming. This time there was a facial reaction, and Snow got the impression that had the diplomat not been involved in a discussion with three other Westerners he would have tried to avoid the encounter. Instead Samuels remained where he was, managing a thin smile when Snow reached the group. He made the introductions with cold politeness: all three strangers were from the British Department of Trade and Industry. There was the customary cocktail party small-talk of how interesting it must be permanently to live in such an unusual society, how long it had taken Snow to perfect the language, how much they hoped to get to the Great Wall and see the Terracotta Army, and how exciting they considered the trade potential to be. Snow kept up his side of the conversations, thinking as he did so how rehearsed and practised all the talk sounded. Samuels, the professional diplomat, made his contribution, but seemed at the same time constantly to be surveying the room.

Samuels expertly broke up the gathering, suggesting to the trade officials that the minister might want them close to him as he mingled throughout the room, which he was now doing.

When they were alone, Samuels said at once: ‘Father Robertson appears worried at some official interest.’ The man had a slow, word-tasting manner of speaking. Like Snow, he was drinking orange juice.

‘Overly worried,’ insisted Snow, at once. ‘I really do not think there is any cause for concern.’

‘Father Robertson told me the escort for your recent trip actually inspected the church?’

‘He came to the English class that I take,’ qualified Snow, determined upon absolute accuracy. ‘While he was there he asked to see the church, which of course I showed him. Just as he’d shown me various temples, when we were travelling. It was not an inspection, in any sense of the word.’

‘Why did you make the journey?’

‘A holiday. I obviously want to see and get to know as much of the country as possible.’ Snow wondered what Samuels’ reaction would have been to knowing the truth: probably the same sort of hand-wringing that Father Robertson engaged in. Snow could see the mission chief in distracted conversation with one of the British officials with whom he had spoken earlier: the old man was looking directly across at where he was, with Samuels. As Snow watched he saw Father Robertson take another Scotch from the tray of a passing waiter and wondered how many there had been since the day had begun. Quite a few by now, he guessed.

‘Don’t you think it odd for the man to make such a visit?’

Snow hesitated. ‘I virtually invited him.’

‘Do you think he is attached to the Security Bureau?’

‘It would not surprise me if he were.’

Samuels paused, smiling and imperceptibly shaking his head to a man and a woman who were approaching. The couple veered away. Samuels covered the refusal by gesturing around the reception area. ‘There’s a great deal of importance attached to visits like these. It might have sounded trite, but those remarks about the enormous trade potential are true.’

‘I understand that,’ said Snow, expectantly.

‘We do not want any local difficulties interfering with the better links that have been established between our two countries. It’s taken a very great deal of time and effort to get to this stage.’

Snow disliked the other man’s unctuous manner and thought he talked like the other officials, earlier, as if everything had been rehearsed and prepared, well in advance. ‘What possible difficulty could be created by Li’s coming to the church?’

‘We’re talking generally.’

‘I don’t think we are,’ rejected Snow. ‘I have done nothing – nothing whatsoever - to cause you any official concern. But we are not allowed to preach or engage in any sort of religious observance involving the Chinese. So we do not. As Li discovered when he came to the class. When he went into the church, it would have been obvious to him it was unused. We don’t preach: do anything to offend the authorities. So there is absolutely nothing for you to worry about: nothing that can be worried about.’ He wasn’t sure the diplomat was accepting anything of what he was saying.

‘Father Robertson seems to think otherwise,’ reminded Samuels, in virtual confirmation of Snow’s doubt.

Snow sighed, carelessly. ‘You know what happened to him, during the Cultural Revolution. It effectively broke him. I think it’s a mistake for the Curia to let him remain here: I know it’s at his own request but I think it is putting too much strain upon a man who has already suffered enough.’

‘I felt it necessary officially to advise London,’ announced Samuels.

‘I would have welcomed the opportunity to give my version of the episode.’

‘I really must be circulating,’ said Samuels, gazing enquiringly around the room again.

‘It would be unfortunate if a biased account misled London,’ said Snow, unwilling to be put off like some minor irritant.

Samuels came fully back to Snow, frowning at the remark. ‘I made my report completely factual: I did not give a biased account.’

‘If it was based entirely upon what Father Robertson told you it must have been biased.’

Samuels mouth tightened, giving his long face a pinched look. ‘I did not overstress the matter.’

Would whatever Samuels had written percolate through to the department to which he reported? Before Snow had time to consider his own question, he at last saw Walter Foster. The embassy liaison man was at the extreme end of the large room, with a mixed group of English and Chinese businessmen: from the way his head was moving back and forth Snow inferred the man was helping with a translation difficulty. ‘I would like to think you’d add to your report, giving my version of events.’

‘What is your version of events?’

‘That I was assigned an over-zealous escort for part of a journey through southern and eastern provinces of the country. During that journey I did nothing to cause any official offence. Towards the end of the trip, there was some discussion about my being a priest and I invited the man to visit the mission when he returned to Beijing. This he did. Again there was nothing to cause any official offence.’

‘I see,’ said Samuels, stiffly.

‘Will you add that?’ pressed the priest.

‘If London seek further clarification,’ promised the diplomat, unconvincingly.

‘Not otherwise?’

‘Wouldn’t there be a risk of indicating an importance you insist does not exist if I send an additional report?’ said Samuels. Once more the room was examined. ‘I really must start moving around.’

Snow thought Samuels’ response showed the typical convoluted thinking of the diplomat milieu. ‘Perhaps if there is any further exchange, we could talk again before you report back? It’s very easy for me to come up from