Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

René staggered back, his arms wide as he tried to keep himself from falling. The second soldier sprang forward, throwing a swift one-two punch at his face and chest. As René tried to duck, the second punch connected with the crown of his head, spinning him off balance and flat on to his back.

Lying flat on his back in the mud, René had his arms raised to protect his face. Both soldiers paused and, slowly unclenching their fists, turned away from him, satisfied that he had been taught enough of a lesson. With a hand clamped to the top of his head, René shut his eyes. He was groaning softly when he suddenly heard a terrible screeching. His eyes flicked open to see Xie stumbling towards him with a survival knife swinging from his right hand. The blade was dull silver, with a cruel serrated edge running along its spine.

As the two soldiers swung round and tried to grab the knife from his grasp, Xie leaped forward with both hands on the hilt plunging it into the top of René’s right thigh. It cut down into the soft muscle, tearing the flesh open with a spray of blood. René screamed, clutching his leg and pressing both hands down across the wound. His breath came in short, erratic bursts as he stared at his own leg, transfixed by the sight of the knife still buried within it.

With a violent jerk, the soldiers yanked Xie backwards, pulling him off René and on to his knees. René’s scream had attracted others. Now they stood in a semi-circle around where he lay, watching. Chen pushed his way to the front.

‘ Get the field dressings! ’ he barked in Mandarin, staring down at René’s leg. ‘ I want him patched up immediately .’

The line of soldiers suddenly parted as Zhu stepped into the middle of the fray. René gazed up at him hopelessly while Xie lowered his head in disgrace.

‘ Did you hear what I said? ’ Chen shouted, rounding on the nearest soldiers to him.

‘ Wait ,’ Zhu said, eyes calmly passing from René to Xie.

He drew a nickel-plated pistol from the holster at his waist. It was a small, delicate weapon. Zhu held it close to his side, resting the barrel against his thigh so that it was almost invisible against the folds of his trousers. Standing over René, he examined the knife in his leg with mild interest.

‘I have found the route up the cliff-face and have the exact GPS point for the monastery,’ he said in English. ‘Now, you’re nothing more than dead weight.’

Raising the pistol higher, he suddenly swung round, whipping it across Xie’s face. The blow knocked the soldier backwards, the sights from the pistol cutting into the flesh of his cheeks.

‘Act without my orders again and you will be shot,’ said Zhu, his black eyes never leaving René for a second. ‘Lieutenant, ensure that the Westerner is left exactly where he is. If he’s still alive by the time we return, then he will face charges and be taken to Drapchi. If he bleeds to death in the meantime . . .’

Zhu paused, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.

‘. . . so be it.’

Chapter 41

Luca followed two junior monks as they swept down endless flights of wooden ladders, moving lower into the foundations of the monastery.

‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Where is Dorje?’

One of the monks briefly turned, raising his finger to his lips, then continued climbing in silence. Luca’s shoulders hunched in frustration, but he followed on regardless.

They passed level after level, gradually veering further back into the mountain and away from the natural light of the windows. Corridors had been tunnelled directly into the rock like mineshafts, lit only by a long procession of squat yellow candles. The further down they went, the heavier and hotter the air became.

Luca noticed that the ladders were no longer worn and bowed at the centre. They felt rigid and unused, as if no one had used them in centuries. The ceiling of the tunnel became lower still and, being nearly a head taller than his two guides, Luca was the only one forced to angle his neck to one side.

The guides hurried on, while Luca felt a growing sense of dread build within him. Where was he being led? He’d already seen what these monks were capable of the previous night – a tormented soul, bound by leather straps in the darkness. For how long had that poor man been rotting down there? Luca could still picture his colourless face. And those eyes . . . They had just stared at him through the darkness with such desperate sadness.

Who was he? The last person to stumble accidentally on this secret monastery?

Luca felt the muscles on his arms tense involuntarily as he stared at the backs of his two guides. The only consolation was that they were little more than kids. He knew he could overpower them both if he needed to, but for now it was worth the gamble of following and obeying – more than anything, he desperately needed some answers.

The tunnel opened out into a high chamber where two pillars had been carved out of the natural rock, stretching twenty feet above their heads. Both were covered in gilded swastikas from top to bottom, covering the entire height of the pillar. As one of the guides reached across and picked up a burning torch from its stand, the patterns caught in the flickering light.

Using the base of the torch, the monk rapped twice on a door to the far side of the chamber. There was the sound of heavy metal runners being pulled back and, with a rush of air, the door creaked open on its hinges.

‘What’s in there?’ Luca whispered, feeling the pulse in his neck quicken. He threw a glance over his shoulder back the way they had come, wondering if he should make a break for it. Perhaps he had been foolish to have trusted the guides this far.

A young face appeared at the door and a figure stepped out towards them. It was a boy – about fourteen years old, but tall for his age. He moved awkwardly, with a hesitant shuffling of his feet. As he came closer, Luca realised there was nothing to fear from him. His brown eyes were timid and gentle, and he was smiling apprehensively.

‘Please,’ he said in a thick accent, sweeping his hand low and gesturing Luca inside.

‘What’s in there?’ Luca asked. He could see light glimmering beyond the door.

‘Please,’ the boy repeated, his English clearly limited to no more than a few words.

Retreating inside, he gestured for Luca to follow once again. Luca hesitated for a moment longer, fighting his natural instinct to flee, then ducked his head under the low doorway.

It was a large room, bright with colour and heat, and dazzling to the senses. Hundreds of miniature candles had been placed in long lines in alcoves along the walls. Wax welled from their sides, dripping on to the floor with an irregular beat.

Along the uninterrupted back wall, huge golden prayer wheels were lined up like sentinels. The cylinders towered towards the ceiling, the gold looking old and battered from use, while the sacred words etched into their sides were rubbed almost clean. On the far side of the room a large recess had been carved into the wall and was covered by a wide, translucent screen. At the centre of this was an enormous picture of the Buddha with piercing blue eyes. Despite the serene countenance of the face, there was something about those eyes that Luca found unnerving. They seemed to stare down at him wherever he positioned himself in the room.

Dorje stood to one side of the screen, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘You are in the presence of His Holiness the seventh Abbot of Geltang Monastery and High Lama of the Blue Order,’ Dorje intoned. His expression was deadly serious as he raised a finger towards Luca. ‘Do not presume to speak unless spoken to.’

Luca turned as the door behind him was slammed shut, the metal runners scraping noisily across the wood. He looked back towards the screen and could just pick out the outline of a figure seated on the ground behind. It was leaning forward, whispering to Dorje.