Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

‘I’m sure there’s just been some confusion here,’ he said eventually. ‘They were just standard tourist permits. Nothing more than that.’

‘Well, your “standard” tourists have not yet reached Shigatse. In fact, they seem to have disappeared completely. They even left without their interpreter,’ Zhu said, inhaling on his cigarette and blowing the smoke across the table. Then, without looking at René, he spoke again, his voice soft, almost conversational.

‘Where are they?’

‘I’m not sure . . .’

‘Where are they?’ he repeated, his tone unwavering.

René stood in the centre of the room, staring down at his bare feet. His toes were balled up against the cold flooring. For some reason, having no shoes on was making him feel horribly exposed. Why the hell was a full captain of the secret police asking him questions about something so banal as a permit? Had the boys been telling him the truth or were they up to something more than just climbing Makalu?

‘Maybe their truck broke down and they’ve been held up a few days. These things happen.’

‘That could be the case,’ Zhu replied, unblinking. ‘Yes, maybe that’s it. The truck.’

There was another silence and René tried to work out what to say next, but found his mind struggling to keep up. If only he weren’t so damn’ hung over.

‘So why are these two particular foreigners back in Tibet after only a month?’

The change of direction in his questioning caught René completely off-guard. Christ, they had been fast. The amount of paperwork these guys had to wade through, it normally took them weeks to put all the pieces together.

‘I don’t know why they came back,’ he said, shrugging his bear-like shoulders. ‘Maybe they like it here.’

Zhu stared at him, their eyes meeting. A split second later René broke the gaze, looking away to the window.

This seedy expat was holding something back, Zhu was sure of it. Two foreigner climbers back within a month to the same godforsaken area, and now they had suddenly disappeared. The monk at Drapchi had said that it was climbers from Nepal who had come to rescue the Panchen Lama, and the Westerners had arrived from Kathmandu and were last seen heading south-east. That would put them near Tingkye.

Even if the location were a coincidence, the timing could not be. Back now, at the very same time that the boy had been spirited away.

Zhu stood up from his chair, and addressed Chen.

‘Have him dress properly and take him into the station for questioning.’

René glared at the slight, precise figure before him, rage finally triumphing over his hangover.

‘I am a Foreign National. I have rights,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘We both know it. You can’t touch me.’

‘I think you might be surprised what we can do,’ Zhu said, and with the tip of his shoe delicately stubbed out his cigarette on the wooden floor, leaving a small circular burn mark.

‘By the way, nice place you’ve got here.’

Chapter 25

The chill of the night drew in quickly and a multitude of stars appeared across the black sky. Bill and Luca lay close to the campfire, away from the direction in which the wind was blowing its smoke. Their feet were right up against the embers, almost burning the soles of their boots, as they watched the boil-in-the-bag rations begin to simmer in the small aluminium cooking pot.

‘You go back to the village and ask if you want to,’ Bill said again. ‘She must think I’m a complete idiot for handing out the antibiotics.’

Luca grinned and leaned his head back in his clasped hands. ‘I’m just as guilty as you by association. Besides, women seem to like you. It’s that trustworthy face of yours. Fools ’em every time. Take Cathy, for instance . . .’

At the mention of his wife’s name, the smile faded from Bill’s face. He stared into the glowing embers, his expression clouding over. Luca sat forward again.

‘Sorry, mate, I shouldn’t have brought that up. And for the record, about the antibiotics, I’ve been thinking about it and . . .’

He stopped mid-sentence. From somewhere in the darkness came the crunch of stones on the path. Both men sat up straight as the old monk they had seen at the entrance to the village came slowly into view, his red robes glowing in the firelight. He raised a hand in greeting, emitting some guttural syllables that neither of them could understand. His right hand was extended behind him and it took a second for Bill and Luca to realise that he was leading someone out from the shadows.

The woman from the village stepped into the light.

After a moment’s surprise, Bill and Luca both scrambled to their feet.

‘Hello,’ Luca said hesitantly.

Without answering, the woman moved around the fire, her green eyes switching from Luca to Bill as if assessing them both. Suddenly the old monk started talking again, his voice thick and rasping.

The woman waited until he had finished, then nodded.

‘My friend wants to introduce himself. He is Gyaltso Choedon of the Gelugpa sect.’ She paused before adding, ‘And I’m Shara.’ A smile crept across her lips, transforming her face. ‘I’m sorry we got off to such a bad start this afternoon.’

Luca grinned. ‘Don’t worry about it. We were just saying the same.’ He offered his hand. ‘I’m Luca. This is Bill.’

By the time Bill had reached across to shake her hand, the old monk had sat down by the fire and was shuffling forward, warming his hands against the flames. As they joined him, his dark eyes glinted slightly as he stared from one man to the other. His face was set in a crooked smile and he seemed strangely pleased with himself; a different man entirely from the one who had ignored them on the pathway.

Luca nodded respectfully to him before turning to Shara.

‘So, I’m guessing from your English that you’re not from this village?’

‘No,’ she said simply. ‘And I imagine you’re not either?’

Luca glanced over at Bill who was staring at her from across the flames. ‘Yeah, we’re pretty far from home. We’re both from England originally, but we’ve been to Tibet a few times before. I don’t think either of us has ever come across anyone who speaks such fluent English as you, especially as far out in the sticks like this.’

‘“In the sticks?”’ repeated Shara quizzically, then laughed. ‘You see, my English is not as good as you think.’

‘I’m sorry, I meant, remote, far away from towns or cities.’

‘I see,’ said Shara. ‘“In the sticks”. Yes, I suppose we are.’ She glanced over at the monk who smiled at her approvingly. ‘Well, I grew up at an English school in Dharmasala in Northern India. I used to work there on . . . translations. But I have travelled through much of Tibet and we don’t often see foreigners in this region. Can I ask why are you here?’

‘We’re climbers,’ Luca said, a trace of pride in his voice. ‘We’re here for a few weeks to try and climb one or two of the mountains on the other side of the valley.’

‘But why here exactly?’

‘Well, I guess it started a couple of months ago. We were high on another mountain and spotted this range. From all the maps, it looked as if none of them had been climbed and so we came out here to try some first ascents.’ He shifted forward a little, his expression suddenly less casual. ‘Perhaps you could help? I’ve been trying to find out if they really are unclimbed from a few of the villagers, but my Tibetan’s not exactly great.’

‘No one has climbed these summits . . .’ Shara began, but before she could say any more the old monk started speaking again, his voice louder and more insistent than before. Shara turned and spoke to him for a few minutes. He seemed to be pressing her on some point, repeating the same phrase over and over again, and tugging on the sleeve of her tunic as he spoke.