The Forbidden Temple (32 page)

She pulled a strand of black hair back from her face. When she turned back to Bill she suddenly looked very tired.

‘You have no idea what it cost me to bring you here. You were never meant to see Geltang and now that you have . . . it’s something that can’t just be undone.’

Bill was still staring at Babu, his expression softening as he thought back to his own son, Hal.

‘Can you tell him I’m sorry for shouting,’ he said. Then, raising his hand to his face, he let his fingertips run over the top of his broken nose and across his split lip. He gave a ghost of a smile. ‘I’m not surprised I scared him. I probably look terrifying.’

Shara whispered a few sentences in Tibetan, her fingers curling through Babu’s hair.

‘Don’t worry. He may only be a boy,’ she said to Bill, ‘but Babu’s tougher than he looks. We travelled the whole way across Tibet together.’

As she spoke, Bill reached forward and grabbed his small diary off the bedside table. A few of his other possessions were there, including a crumpled picture of Cathy and the kids. Ripping a blank page from the spine, he started folding the page in half.

‘Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve been through a lot,’ Shara answered. ‘We all have.’

Bill was silent for a moment, then leaned forward again, wincing slightly from the effort and opened the palm of his hand to reveal a small paper frog.

‘Ribbit,’ he said softly. As Shara passed the frog across to Babu and he held it aloft, his expression slowly changed from fear to curiosity. He pulled down on the head, marvelling at the way the legs moved. After a moment, Babu’s nose wrinkled as the beginnings of a smile passed across his face.

‘Ribbit,’ he repeated, his smile widening a little more.

Bill went to speak when the door bolts were suddenly shot back. A broad-set monk dipped his head and entered the room. His eyes
carefully passed over each of them in turn, before he folded his arms across his chest, the bare muscles flexing in his upper arm. A long, jagged scar ran down from the crown of his head.

‘Drang,’ Shara said, her jaw clenching with frustration. He didn’t respond but stood impassively to one side of the door. As Shara signalled for Babu to remain quiet, a second figure swept into the room. Even before he had thrown back the cowl of his robe, Shara recognised the unmistakable silhouette of Rega.

‘
Tashi delek,
Venerable Father,’ Shara said, dropping into a low bow. ‘We are honoured by your presence.’

Rega didn’t answer. His head was inclined to one side and his nostrils flared wide, taking in the sharp smell of disinfectant in the room.

‘Father?’ Shara prompted and his head suddenly jerked towards her.

‘I was told there was some commotion coming from this room,’ Rega said eventually. ‘What is happening here?’

Shara looked towards Bill, who was staring at her and the old monk, trying to understand what they were saying.

‘I just came to check on the patient,’ Shara answered quickly. ‘But I need to deal with an urgent matter. If you will excuse me . . .’ She trailed off as Rega became distracted, his head tilting to where Babu was sitting on the other bed.

The old monk moved closer as Babu shrank back into the pillows, his prayer beads clacking nervously in his hand. ‘Shara?’ he said, his voice high-pitched and scared.

Rega’s nostrils flared again. ‘So finally, I meet the child. Governor Depon’s son.’

He reached out a hand, the fingers long and delicate. ‘Come closer, child.’

Shara gave a strained smile.

‘With due respect, His Holiness the Abbot has instructed that he should not socialise with other members of our order. I will take him back to his quarters.’

‘Yet he is here with the Westerner? And I only ask the chance to meet a boy so special that he does not even pass our initiations.’ Rega’s lips pulled back to reveal worn teeth as he attempted a smile. ‘The only way for me to see is through touch. Surely you would not begrudge an old blind man?’

Shara hesitated for a second, glancing to where Drang was standing by the door. He looked preoccupied, staring at the jade beads Babu was holding in his hands. His head finally tilted up, to meet her gaze, then he moved a step to his right, covering the door.

Shara helped Babu on to the ground and as Rega approached he stood rigid, hands outstretched.

‘Hold still while our father greets you,’ Shara said, hearing the tension in her own voice.

Rega’s bony hands traced across Babu’s cheeks, sweeping over the top of his forehead and down under his chin. As his fingers passed over Babu’s closed eyes, the prayer beads in his hand fell to the floor with a clatter. Eventually, Rega straightened, flexing his fingers.

‘You say you are the son of the governor, but I can tell you were born on the plateau. Tell me, child, when did you move to Lhasa?’

‘Really Father, he is just a child,’ Shara protested. ‘He is surely too young to answer such questions.’

‘Too young or unable?’ Rega said. ‘Many irregularities have occurred recently and it is for me to decide what . . .’

He was interrupted by clattering footsteps. A young monk appeared at the doorway, his eyes frantic. He bowed quickly at the room, and then leaned forward again, supporting hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

‘Father, I must speak with you.’

Rega swivelled round, his jaw clenched.

‘Wait, impertinent child,’ he hissed, raising a finger, ‘I am engaged with other matters.’

‘Father you must listen! Something terrible has happened.’

Rega hesitated for a second, then with a sweep of his hand, signalled
for Drang to follow him. He stalked out of the door, his robe billowing behind him. As his steps disappeared down the corridor, Bill propped himself further up in the bed.

‘What on earth was all that about?’

‘I’ll explain later,’ Shara said quickly, scooping Babu up from the ground. ‘I’m sorry, Bill, but it was stupid of me to have brought him here. I’ll come back, I promise.’

As she carried Babu to the door, he started squirming in her arms, his eyes locked down towards the floor.

‘Shara, wait!’ he said, pointing over her shoulder.

‘Not now,’ Shara said distractedly. ‘We’ve got to go.’

With Babu still trying to break free of her grip, she swept out the door and into the corridor beyond, leaving Bill alone in the sudden quiet of his chamber.

Two hours later, the bolts on the door to Bill’s room were softly drawn back.

As the door inched open, the gentle draught of air made Bill stir in his sleep, but not wake. Drang stepped silently into the room. His eyes remained fixed on Bill’s face, the scar on his face glinting in the light. He moved further into the room, his felt boots padding over the stone floor.

With his eyes still on the bed, he crouched down, his hands feeling across the stone floor. Eventually his fingertips connected with the beads he was looking for and with another quick glance at Bill’s sleeping form, he retreated back towards the door.

In the corridor outside, he lifted the prayer beads towards the nearest lamp, so that it cast a dim light across the silver clasp and the ornate symbol embossed across it. He was right to have come back.

He had seen that symbol before.

‘KEEP IT TIGHT.’

The words drifted up the cliff-face to where Chen stood, his stance wide and his arms flexing as he hauled on the rope. He grunted from the effort, his powerful shoulders swinging forward with each great heave. A moment later Zhu appeared, his gloved hands clinging to the rock while the rope snapped taut at his waist.

As Chen watched him worm his way on to the ledge, he stared into the captain’s face, at the black eyes and thin, pursed lips. Zhu was sheet-white, his cheeks devoid of the slightest hint of colour. He looked as if he were about to be sick.

Coiling in the slack, Chen wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his heavy winter jacket. He had practically pulled the captain up the entire cliff-face and, despite their difference in size, it was heavy work. As they went higher, it had slowly dawned on him that Zhu was more or less a dead weight, his eyes moving nervously in a constant rhythm from the rock to the rope and back again.

It was almost unbelievable, but there was only one explanation – Zhu was scared of heights.

‘Are you OK, sir?’

For a moment Zhu didn’t answer. He simply moved past Chen to the back of the ledge, pressing his shoulders against the rock.

‘How much further?’ he murmured.

Chen looked up, watching the other soldiers climbing in pairs along the line of the ledge. They were getting close to the top, maybe a hundred metres more to go.

‘Another twenty minutes. No more.’

Zhu nodded. He was trying to steady his breathing and tiny beads of sweat had collected on his upper lip.

Chen watched him curiously for a moment. It was hard to believe this was the same man who had so casually ordered the execution of the monk in Drapchi or the rape of the little girl in Lhasa headquarters.

Zhu caught his gaze and his expression hardened.

‘Don’t you ever say a word about this,’ he hissed.

‘No, sir.’

Chen turned away, staring down into the valley below. Blurred from the height, he could see the single tent. It was all that remained of their campsite and in it, he knew, the Westerner would be either dead or dying.

All night they had heard his desperate whimpering. It was soft, little more than a murmur, but Chen had been unable to sleep through it. It had echoed round the campsite, the undercurrent of another’s suffering silencing everyone at dinner. Only Zhu had eaten heartily, spooning out extra portions of noodles and, unusually, making idle conversation with the men.

From the sheer amount of blood lost, Chen was almost certain the knife had severed the Westerner’s femoral artery. By now, he must surely have bled to death. Many years ago he had seen a construction worker injured in the same way. A crane had malfunctioned and a strand of the wire cabling had sliced his artery in two. Blood had pumped ceaselessly on to the dusty ground, the life seeping from the man with terrifying ease.

Zhu had surely known that. He had known that such a knife wound, left untreated, would inevitably lead to a slow and painful death.

Chen had come across many ruthless men at the Bureau. While
out in the field, they chose between life or death, using torture whenever it served their purpose. It was how the Bureau operated.

From their first meeting at Drapchi, Chen had thought Zhu was the same as the others. The ruthlessness he displayed was simply part of the job. But last night something had switched inside him and Chen had finally seen things the way they really were. Expedience was only one part of the equation for Zhu. What really drove him was pleasure.

He had decided to let the Westerner bleed to death when, at any stage, he could have put a bullet in the back of his head and been done with it. But for Zhu violence was not merely a means to an end. Violence
was
the end. He was a sadist, Chen realised. A man made genuinely happier by the suffering of others.

When they had struck camp in the morning, no one had approached the Westerner’s tent. There was only silence from within and the soldiers had left it standing, like a tombstone to mark his unburied body.

Back on the ledge behind him, Chen heard the sound of coughing. He turned to see Zhu still standing with his shoulders pressed against the rock.

‘What’s the route from the summit?’ he asked, his face ashen.

Chen reached behind him automatically to touch the back of his rucksack, where he knew his laptop was sitting protected by its hardened casing.

‘We head south, sir. Nearly five kilometres across the glacier floor. I think it’s due east after that, but I shall check.’

‘Then get moving,’ Zhu said, waving his hand impatiently. ‘I want to reach the monastery before nightfall.’

Chen nodded his head, and without another word started up the ledge once more, paying out the rope as he went.

Four hours later Zhu held open the corner of his tent with his gloved right hand, blinking as the afternoon light reflected off the snow. He cursed as the icy wind sent the smoke from his cigarette twisting away behind him.

They had made it across the flat ground of the glacier with ease, but now a new obstacle stood in their way.

Reaching behind him for his Leica Ultravid 20 binoculars, he adjusted the focus and stared ahead at the problem: the piles of rock stacked in front of their new campsite. The scene was apocalyptic, as if half the mountain had somehow collapsed during the night, leaving debris strewn in every direction. Finding a route through that would be difficult. It would also be highly dangerous.

With his spare hand, Zhu stubbed his cigarette out in the pristine white snow. Perhaps they had made a mistake. Perhaps there was no route through here after all.

His attention was drawn to the SOF sergeant walking between each tent, checking on the men. His head was angled to one side as he tried to shelter his face from the worst of the wind. With each pace his boots punched through the crust of snow, so that he sank down into the powder beneath. He trudged past the line of tents slowly, tightening the guy ropes and double-checking that everything had been properly stowed away.

Eventually, he made it to Zhu’s tent and saluted.

‘Everything all right, sir?’

Zhu nodded distractedly.

‘Send out two men to find a route through the rocks,’ he said. ‘And get Lieutenant Chen to report here immediately with the satellite mapping.’

The sergeant hesitated for a second, shifting uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

‘With all due respect, sir, the sun will be down in no more than an hour. The weather’s worsening. I thought perhaps we might send out scouts tomorrow morning instead.’

‘Send them now,’ Zhu ordered. He began folding shut the fly-sheet of his tent, then paused. ‘And make sure one of them is that idiot private.’

The sergeant saluted then continued back along the line of tents,
squatting down by Chen’s. He banged on the tent frame before reaching forward and pulling open the zipper. The lieutenant was there, sitting with his back to the entrance.