Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

As he spoke there was a rap on the door and Drang quietly stepped inside. He made to approach them but Dorje’s hand shot out, gesturing him to wait.

‘Even if we agreed to it, how do you propose to detain the Westerners?’ he asked, his voice kept low so that only Rega could hear.

Rega leaned closer to him, so Dorje could smell the musty aroma of his robes.

‘The Perfect Life. We must force them to take it.’

Dorje’s eyes widened in surprise. Before he could speak Rega had signalled for Drang to approach.

‘A messenger from the Abbot,’ Drang announced.

Behind him a tall boy of about fourteen hesitantly shuffled into the room. The boy’s robes clung to his gangly body and he moved with the awkwardness of one who was too tall for his age. He came to a halt a few meters away from the dais and dropped into a low bow. As he pulled himself vertical once again, he reached out his right hand which contained a tightly-rolled scroll. He presented it in the direction of Rega then, realising his mistake, quickly moved his arm so that it was pointing towards Dorje instead.

Dorje gathered himself and moved towards the boy.

‘Thank you, Norbu,’ he said softly. He knew how flustered the Abbot’s aide could become by just the simplest change in his routine. Dorje’s eyes quickly scanned the parchment.

‘We are to keep the Westerners separate and to observe them. That is the Abbot’s decree.’

‘But it is for us to advise him,’ Rega protested. ‘Does he not wish to hear our voice on such a matter? And what of the Council of Elders?’

Dorje didn’t answer but simply released the corners of the parchment, allowing it to roll back on itself. He stood lost in thought while Rega began pacing up and down in front of the dais.

‘I do not like what has been happening recently,’ he proclaimed, his thin fingers balled into fists. ‘Strange things have happened that have never been allowed before. Two weeks ago a boy arrived who did not pass our initiation and was not of age, yet he was shown directly to the Abbot’s quarters . . . And now this mild treatment of Westerners. Does the Abbot not realise that they could destroy everything?’ He pointed to Norbu, standing with his head bowed subserviently. ‘You, Abbot’s messenger, who was that boy exactly? You are the one charged with looking after him, are you not?’

Norbu’s eyes looked to Dorje pleadingly then back to Rega.

‘He . . . he is from Lhasa, venerable father,’ he answered, stuttering slightly. ‘The third son of the Depon family.’

‘Indeed. And, tell me, who is his father?’

Norbu’s cheeks flooded with colour. He rocked back and forth, shoulders hunched from tension. His lips moved silently as he tried to articulate the sentence and hold back his stammer.

‘He is the honourable Gyaltso Depon, second . . . second governor of the city of Lhasa.’

Dorje swept forward, coming between Rega and the boy.

‘Enough of this!’ he said. ‘This boy is just a messenger.’ Then his voice became gentler as he put a hand on Norbu’s shoulder. ‘Go to the Abbot, child, and inform His Holiness that we will honour his request to keep the Westerners separate and observed.’

With obvious relief Norbu scuttled out of the chamber, eyeing Drang warily as he squeezed past him and out of the door.

Dorje inhaled deeply. ‘I will set watch on the taller Westerner, you the injured one. I understand that your physicians are working on him now.’

Rega gave a distracted nod.

‘Well then,’ Dorje continued, ‘we shall wait and see what the will of Buddha decrees.’ He then turned towards the exit. ‘And, Rega, you have every right to be sceptical of foreigners, but we must wait for them to reveal their true natures. We must allow them to show themselves to us, and if they act honourably, if they respect and understand Geltang’s true purpose, then perhaps they will make the decision for us.’

Rega remained absolutely still, so that Dorje wondered if he had even heard what had been said.

‘We all agree that the Perfect Life is not a decision to be taken lightly,’ Dorje added in the face of Rega’s silence, then swept out of the room.

Rega waited until the door had closed before pulling his cowl over his head once again. It cast a deep shadow over the top half of his face, leaving only his jutting chin visible beneath. A long time ago he had watched calamitous events unfold in this way, seen so much lost due to the inaction of others.

This time there was too much at stake.

Chapter 35

Captain Zhu stood at the head of the pathway, watching the trail of soldiers pass beneath him in single file.

The eight soldiers from the SOF unit in Chengdu had arrived before dawn at Gonkar airport on a special charter Ilyushin IL-76 jet. As the vast balloon tyres slowly ground to a halt and the rear of the plane lowered with a hiss of hydraulics, Zhu had watched the soldiers swiftly clamber out and on to the waiting trucks. He didn’t need the files he’d been faxed on each one of them to know they were professionals. You could see it from the way they moved.

Over two days of travelling had followed on hard, sun-baked roads. They had then left the trucks and started walking along meandering trails, the soldiers maintaining an unrelenting pace. Each carried an enormous pack, their QBZ-95 assault rifles held loosely in front of them. At the slightest noise, the butt of the rifles instinctively shifted up into their shoulders while their thumb clicked off the safety catch. They would stand perfectly still, eyes scanning their surroundings, bodies tense, as they waited for the all clear. Despite the comparatively easy terrain, it was obvious that none of them was taking anything for granted.

Zhu had commanded this kind of man before: every movement drilled into them by training, every order completed with detached professionalism. For them, the mission objectives changed, but the realities of life in the field was always the same. For hour after hour they marched along in the mountain heat, utterly indifferent to it, while the remainder of the group struggled to keep pace.

Lumbering along at the back, two hundred yards behind the last in line, was the bearish frame of René Falkus. Completely at odds with the military green of the others, he wore thick brown corduroy trousers and a pale blue shirt. A spotted red and white handkerchief was tied round his neck in a vain effort to absorb the rivulets of sweat running down from his hairline, while his chest heaved in the thin mountain air. Already the sun had seared his forehead and cheeks a painful pink and he squinted, eyes half closed, against its harsh light.

René glanced up to see Zhu standing high above the path, watching the line of men move past. For a moment their eyes met before René wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and trudged on. He settled back into his normal pace, his eyes reverting to the spot they had been trained on all day.

Three from the back of the line and marching purposefully ahead was the only member of the team who had been taken from Lhasa, aside from Chen and Zhu himself. And the moment René had stepped up into the truck, he had recognised the same shaven head and thickset neck he had seen in the interrogation room. It was the brute who had raped little Anu. And now here he was, walking along the path, only a few hundred feet ahead.

Since they’d first set out René had found it almost impossible to tear his eyes away from the man. He studied the weathered hands stuffing rations into a rucksack; the jaw moving slackly as the man chewed and spat out tobacco. Even his blank expression drew René’s gaze. And yet, each time the man looked up, René found himself avoiding eye contact, like a schoolchild with the class bully.