‘He isn’t sweating so much, either,’ added Samuels.

‘Let’s hope it’s all ending as quickly as it all began.’

‘You’ll be telling Rome?’ asked the diplomat.

The need to inform the Curia hadn’t occurred to Snow until then, although it was obvious that he had to. Awareness tumbled upon awareness. Would this breakdown, whatever its cause, finally bring about the long- overdue retirement and withdrawal of Father Robertson? Leaving Snow blessedly alone at the mission? Not a wrong or unfair reflection, he told himself: no conflict, with his most recent remorse at the tension between himself and the older priest. His sole concern was for a worn out, overstrained old man who needed rest, not perpetual apprehension. He said: ‘It’s necessary that I do.’

‘Will they retire him?’ asked Samuels.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ve come to realize he’s extraordinarily attached to China,’ said Samuels. ‘Which, considering what happened to him, is difficult to understand.’

‘Not, perhaps, to a priest.’

‘You can’t properly practise as priests,’ contradicted Samuels, at once.

‘It’s his dream that one day things will change: that he will be able to.’

‘Do you believe that?’

Snow thought before answering. ‘I don’t think there can be any doubt that communism will crumble here, as it’s crumbled everywhere else. But I’m not sure how long it will take …’ He paused, glancing through the open doors towards where the old man lay. ‘… I certainly don’t think it’s going to be in his lifetime. So he’s going to die disappointed.’

‘Father Robertson came to see me, two or three days ago. Told me that your escort had visited again.’

‘He wants copies of some photographs I took when we were travelling.’ Snow had wondered how long it would take the subject to be raised.

Samuels came forward in his chair, and when he spoke the words were spaced even more than usual in the odd way he talked. ‘What photographs? You haven’t done anything insensitive, have you?’

‘He was an official escort!’ reminded Snow, pleased as the explanation came to him. ‘I wouldn’t have been allowed to photograph anything I wasn’t supposed to, even by accident, would I?’

Samuels continued to look at him doubtfully. ‘Offence is very easily given here. Even by doing something that would not cause a problem anywhere else in the world.’

‘I have undergone a great many lectures on the political realities of living here,’ reminded Snow.

‘With Father Robertson incapacitated – we don’t know for how long – I would like you to let me know if this man keeps turning up here,’ said the diplomat. ‘I don’t want us – at the embassy, I mean – caught out by not being prepared.’

‘I’ll keep you in touch,’ promised Snow. There was an irony here: Father Robertson’s illness would provide a valid excuse to visit the embassy whenever he liked in the immediate future, but there was no contact any more with whom he could liaise. Quickly, seeing the opportunity, he said: ‘When I was at the trade reception Foster told me he was leaving. Is there a replacement yet?’

Samuels frowned and Snow feared he had been too direct. The diplomat said: ‘Not yet. There will be. Always essential to maintain the personnel quota we’re allowed.’

‘Quite soon then?’ said Snow, risking the persistence. If the new liaison man arrived in a week or two the opportunity might still be there for them to have safe embassy encounters to plan the new system for the future.

Instead of replying Samuels’ face creased at an overlooked question of his own. ‘Where are the photographs this man wants?’

‘I sent them to England, to my family, for developing. I’ve asked for the prints to be sent back.’ Snow decided the moment was lost and that it would be wrong to try to get back to it.

‘So he’ll be returning?’

‘Obviously.’

‘I’m not happy with this.’

‘Really!’ said Snow, stressing the weariness at a repeated conversation. ‘We talked this through very fully at the reception. There isn’t anything to worry about.’

‘I think I should advise London, of this second visit.’

‘Good!’ seized Snow at once. ‘It’ll give you an opportunity to include my full explanation this time.’

‘I’ll put your views,’ promised Samuels.

The exchange did not amount to a dispute but an atmosphere developed between them. With his mind occupied by his unexpected access to the embassy, Snow decided to alert the Curia as quickly as possible of Father Robertson’s condition.

But alone, in his own quarters, Snow did not start to write at once, instead gazing uncertainly at the blank paper in the ancient, uneven-keyed typewriter. This was his first chance to communicate direct, without having to go through the censorious Father Robertson, with those in Rome who ordered and dictated their lives and whose instructions had to be unquestioningly obeyed. Written in a certain way – and not an unfair or untrue way – Snow knew he could manipulate Father -Robertson’s enforced retirement. He could remind the Curia of the old man’s past suffering and honestly recount the constant apprehension and set out the apparent seriousness of the sudden illness.

There was the sound of movement along the corridor and Snow looked up in time to see Samuels coming out of Father Robertson’s room. The diplomat turned, sensing Snow’s attention, and shook his head to indicate there was no change.

He couldn’t do it, Snow determined. Father Robertson was being medically cared for, as safe as he could possibly be at this time and in this place. That was all he was entitled to tell Rome. To do anything more – to try to use the illness for his own selfish, personal benefit – would be monstrously wrong, betraying any and every principle with which he had been indoctrinated as a priest: principles which, if he were brutally honest, he might already have put into doubt by his secondary activities which, at times like this, almost seemed more important than his first and proper calling. It had been agonizing trying to salve his conscience over the confessional: he couldn’t, at the moment, sacrifice any more of his unsteady integrity.

Snow began to write at last, keeping the account absolutely factual and strictly limited to the collapse. He made a carbon copy, for Father Robertson to know everything Rome had been told. And having completed the letter Snow left the envelope open for the doctor’s return, hoping to add a suggested diagnosis, reluctant for Rome to regard the illness as a mystery.

It was not, however, properly resolved when the doctor did return.

It was mid-afternoon before Pickering came back, initially shouldering past them with the briefest nod of greeting, interested only in the now peacefully sleeping priest. While the other two men watched, Pickering went progressively through the earlier temperature, blood pressure, somnolent eye reaction and nerve sensitivity tests before removing the saline drip from Father Robertson’s arm. He gently dressed the induced puncture wound – which showed no tendency to bleed – and as he dismantled the drip frame finally said: ‘He’s a lot better. Certainly won’t need this. Everything seems to be stabilizing nicely.’ At last he turned to them, smiling proudly.

‘What is it?’ demanded Samuels, again.

The smile faded into the familiar irritable scowl. ‘I don’t know what it is. But I know what it’s not. Definitely not infectious.’

Snow said: ‘I want to give an indication to my Order in Rome.’

‘I don’t know,’ repeated Pickering. ‘It could be a virus: maybe we’ll never scientifically know.’

‘What about the seriousness?’ persisted Samuels.

‘He’s an old man and he’s quite frail,’ declared the doctor, unnecessarily. ‘At his age and in his condition, a virus has got to be regarded seriously. But the improvement is quite remarkable in the last few hours: almost dramatically so. Which is encouraging. His temperature is practically normal, and for his age I regard his blood pressure as practically normal, too.’

‘Is there any risk … I mean, could he die?’ stumbled Snow.

‘Good God, no!’ erupted the man, who appeared permanently on the point of exasperation. ‘He’ll need care, certainly. But I don’t think he’s in any danger.’

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