The Buddha of Brewer Street (21 page)

‘Of course.’ Her back shivered in enjoyment. ‘That’s why I love him so.’

‘Look, help me, Mickey. To help Tom.’ His tone became suddenly more practical. ‘Keep me in touch, eh? Before he gets in too deep and discovers he can’t climb out?’

She straightened up. ‘You’re scarcely the man to preach caution with your balls dangling over Her Majesty’s carpet and about as defenceless as a duck in a desert. Questions will be raised in the House.’

‘Oh, God. They’ll crucify me!’ He leaped into the air. Naked men always looked ridiculous, she thought, when viewed at any distance greater than about twelve inches. ‘Questions!’ he continued in alarm. ‘It’s my bloody turn today. I’m supposed to be at the Despatch Box in ten minutes.’ He began a desperate scramble into his clothes. She laughed furiously as his milk white bottom disappeared into carefully pressed trousers. Then he was at the drinks cabinet. A stiff whisky. Neat. Down in one. Back to the dressing. Grabbing for his briefing book.

She was still laughing as he disappeared out of the door.

‘I suppose a quickie’s out of the question …?’

At first sight, two of the raids looked like normal burglaries. They cleared out the three computer terminals from the Tibet Foundation in Bloomsbury and trashed much of what was left, which didn’t amount to a great deal since the Foundation was a relatively small charitable enterprise dedicated to supporting the cultural needs of the Tibetan community. None of the terminals were of any great value. Strangely, however, they also took all the floppy disks, which had no commercial value whatsoever, just jumbles of information ranging from recipes to subscription reminders. Perhaps the raiders were amateurs.

That same night the home of the chairman of the Tibet Association was also broken into. His still more ancient computer was practically candle-powered but nevertheless joined the list of stolen Tibetan property, along with a boxload of paper records. Nothing else was touched, apart from the small shrine in his front room, which was trashed. The burglars, if amateurs, had attitude.

There was nothing amateurish about the following night’s raid. Fire investigation officers who later sifted through the debris couldn’t be certain it was arson – with all that kitchen equipment around on which to lay the blame there was always likely to be an element of doubt. What was without doubt, however, was that the fire needed only seconds to take hold and within minutes had turned The Himalaya into an inferno. Nothing survived. What the flames didn’t consume was obliterated when the huge Victorian roof joists collapsed and fell through two floors.

It was suggested afterwards that only a miracle had enabled Kunga and Wangyal to survive. But the monk knew better.

Kunga had been finding sleep increasingly elusive – a combination of impatience and impotence, perhaps, as he waited for Goodfellowe. So he had sat up late with Wangyal, talking, reminiscing, then they had gone for a walk through the night. Kunga had insisted. He’d suddenly found the small back room of the restaurant oppressive, closing in on him, like a hand pushing him out. He could actually feel the hand between his shoulder blades. Survival had been as simple as that. As simple as faith. But no miracle. They had missed the fire by minutes.

When they returned from their walk there was nothing to be done except stand and watch as everything Wangyal possessed was destroyed. From within the building came a mighty growl, a floor collapsed, and showers of glowing embers were sent angry into the night.

‘The breath of dragons,’ Kunga muttered grimly.

They both knew this was no accident, and who was to blame.

The flames were at their peak, blazing with the sound and wrath of stampeding buffalo. Wangyal felt as if they were heading straight for him. By the time they had passed there would be nothing left, the landscape of his life would be beaten flat. ‘I came out of Tibet with nothing. But I cannot watch this,’ he sighed.

‘Then it is time. No more delay. We must go.’

‘Go? Go where?’

‘To Tummo.’

And with a sense of renewed urgency the monk dragged Wangyal away. There was no point in staying, nothing left to stay for. He could inspect the ashes in the morning.

Goodfellowe, woken at almost three a.m., was rumpled and heavy in both eye and limb. He’d been to the gym again and was finding all this exercise exhausting. At times he wondered whether he would have any strength left for Elizabeth. Fit, maybe, but fast asleep. So they had sat over tea – Pu-er tea from Yunan, dark and fierce to restore his wits, letting the steam bathe his eyes – while they outlined what had taken place. The burglaries. The fire. Their utter helplessness.

‘At last you bring me good news,’ Goodfellowe yawned, waiting for the caffeine to strike.

‘I have heard a little about your British sense of humour,’ Kunga began, ‘but I do not understand it.’

‘No humour. There’s good news in what you tell me.’ He poured more boiling water into the pot. The Pu-er would take several flushings, and so would he. ‘But first, I am so sorry about your restaurant, Wangyal.’

Wangyal nodded wearily. ‘We have a saying in Buddhism …’

‘I know. Everything is impermanence. Even so, I’m sad.’

‘When you turn things upside down, they look different. When you have lost your country, the loss of a few tables and a kitchen seems somehow trivial.’ He managed a half-smile. ‘At least, you try to make it so.’

Goodfellowe marvelled at the simple self-control of these Tibetans. None of them would make a politician.

‘But how is this good news, Tummo?’ Kunga interjected impatiently.

‘At first sight, it’s not. Your enemies clearly know you’re in the country. They’re also in a hurry, no doubt of that. They want you dead. Like Gompo. To stop you from getting to the boy. To give you no chance of spiriting him away. You should think again about going to the police, Kunga.’

‘And while I was enjoying the hospitality of your police, they would be out there searching for the child. If tonight tells us anything, it is that we have no time to waste.’

‘Fair point. But – if you turn it upside down – that also gives us two advantages. Your secret’s out and your enemies know you’re here. So there’s no point in hiding
why
you’re here. We can start the search for the boy in earnest.’

‘We
, Tummo Godfella?’ Behind their sorrow, the monk’s eyes had begun to glow.

Goodfellowe’s brow wrinkled. This monk was exasperating. ‘Don’t get any ideas about me; this is purely self-interest. Since I live above a restaurant, let’s just say I object very strongly to them being burned down.’

Kunga tried to hide his smile of satisfaction. ‘And the second piece of good news? What is that?’

‘The Foundation and the Association. You can be sure they are entirely loyal.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if they weren’t it wouldn’t have been necessary to burgle them.’

‘But how does that help?’

‘It means that at last we’ve got a team.’

Kunga had insisted that they be summoned from their beds.

‘But it is only just past four in the morning,’ Wangyal protested.

‘And past midday in Tibet. We have no time to lose. Call them.’

So, while Goodfellowe replenished the pot of tea, two of the most prominent leaders of the local Tibetan community had been hauled from their places of sleep – Phuntsog who headed the Foundation, a surprisingly tall and thin man for a Tibetan with a nose like a traffic cone, and Frasi, who was chairman of the Association, a compact man with worry lines on his forehead like a mountain range. As dawn broke they had crowded around Goodfellowe’s small dining table – he had only four chairs and was forced to commandeer the kitchen stool – while Kunga related his story of the reincarnation and the Search. The two newcomers had listened awe-struck.

‘This is a particularly great honour. If the child is amongst us,’ Frasi had whispered.

‘It is also a particularly great danger,’ Phuntsog had responded forcefully, agitated by the news of the murder. He’d been in the West perhaps a little too long, and had begun to lose the sense of detachment that characterized his countrymen.

‘But why were you both burgled?’ Goodfellowe interjected. ‘What did they take?’

‘Old computers, that’s all. Antiquated and practically valueless,’ Phuntsog had responded. ‘And useless computer disks.’

‘And a box of paper records,’ Frasi added.

‘Of what?’

‘Of my members.’

Goodfellowe began balancing on the legs of the kitchen stool, rocking back and forth like a monk in prayer. ‘So, it wasn’t the computers they wanted but the information they contained. The details of your members. I’m afraid it means they can all expect a visit. Every single one of them.’

‘Won’t take long,’ Phuntsog sniffed through that pointed nose. He seemed to sniff a lot.

‘Why?’

‘We Tibetans are a tiny community in this country. Fewer than a hundred of us scattered around – only two hundred even if you throw in the families.’

‘And how many children?’ Goodfellowe demanded.

‘Boys. Aged two or less,’ Kunga added.

‘Why two or less?’ Goodfellowe asked.

‘Simple arithmetic,’ the monk replied. ‘Even gods have to be conceived! His Holiness died almost four years ago, and there is a short period of transition through which every spirit, even the most enlightened, must travel before being conceived and reborn. So he will be less than three. But probably not much less. Every omen and sign tells us that the incarnation is ready to be discovered, yet a child younger than two is scarcely capable of talking and walking let alone being able to reveal to us that he is the new Dalai Lama.’

‘How on earth will he do that?’

Kunga smiled, an expression full of time and mysteries. ‘That is not so easy to define. Perhaps a little like recognizing one of your saints? But this is no ordinary child. He will have characteristics that are exceptional, that will have been passed down from his previous incarnation. Perhaps he will have some physical feature, the twist of his smile, something in his eyes. Like recognizing the features of your own family. But most certainly he will show many spiritual signs, these are the most important. Which is why the team of Searchers must be steeped in the traditions, and must have known His Holiness so well. When we believe we have found him, we test the child by getting him to recognize items and articles from his previous life. So this child can be no older than two. And probably no younger.’

Phuntsog piled in once more. ‘Which makes it all the easier for the Chinese. There will be so few boys of the right age. Most of us came to Britain in the seventies, when visas were easier. We’re middle aged. Past the baby bit.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

‘I am, yak head.’

‘I can think of two with daughters. In Milton Keynes.’

‘And there’s Samya-ling in Scotland.’

‘It’s a monastery! You know – monks? Nuns? You expect to find children in a monastery?’

‘But there must be some families with young sons.’

‘Must there?’ It was Phuntsog, distant to the last.

A silence of uncertainty settled across them. Goodfellowe was growing increasingly exasperated at the Tibetans’ apparent lack of coherence.

‘Look, how long can it take to contact a hundred families? Two days?’ he demanded.

‘We must move faster than that. Warn anyone with a young child to move them to safety. There is no time to lose,’ Kunga insisted, sharing Goodfellowe’s concern.

‘The Chinese have had the lists for a whole day. They’re probably tracking down the Tibetan families already, even as we speak.’

A chill rippled around the table.

‘But there’s another problem that worries me even more,’ Goodfellowe continued.

‘Which is?’

‘They tried to kill you tonight, Kunga. Yet how on earth did they know where to find you?’

So Duggie had won. Done the only sensible thing and lied about his prospects. Now he was leader of the Government backbenchers, a prince amongst the prawns.

His strategy had been immaculate. His supporters had gone round the House suggesting that Bert, the only other likely contender, was home by a landslide – although in the case of the backbench committee it might be more aptly described as a mudslip. In the Tea Room, in the Smoking Room and corridors, along the benches of the House, the word was heard. ‘It’s Bert.’ Good old solid, dependable Bert. Wisdom of ages, even if he was a little deaf. Would do the job splendidly, everyone agreed.

Trouble was, no one liked the pompous ass. (Not that liking someone particularly mattered in politics. Brutus liked Caesar, even loved him. Always claimed he would be the last man to stab his friend in the back …) Many colleagues would have been happy for Bert to have slipped home by a handful of votes and got on with it, but heaven preserve them from having to listen to him in the bar sounding off about his bloody landslide. He would become a bigger pain in the butt than the Chief Whip. A little humility was called for and so – no landslide. And, in the expectation of just that, even many colleagues who were content to see Bert elected had voted for Duggie.

So Duggie had won.

Things were never as they seemed, Goodfellowe reflected, having congratulated and commiserated with the two candidates, neither of whom he’d voted for. He had given a write-in vote for Windy, the only write-in vote of the election, on the grounds that none of it mattered. What was the point of running for office as leader of the backbenches? No power, no patronage, no real role, nothing but pretence. Like a Janet and John video that he used to play for Sam. The characters would sit around pretending to be stuffed dummies, only coming to life when all the grown-ups had turned their backs. For the rest of the time it was all sitting back and waiting. Yes, just like being a backbencher.

Things were never as they seemed.

And that was it. That’s what had been nagging at Goodfellowe ever since this nonsense started with the Tibetans. The Tibetans, of course, assumed that their enemy was the Chinese, the hated Han. But Goodfellowe didn’t hate the Han. He lived among them, had many friends within their number who had shown him considerable kindnesses. The Chinese Government was a different matter, was ruthless as even their Ambassador Madame Lin had acknowledged, and would crush all things Tibetan without compunction. But Goodfellowe didn’t live in Tibet, he lived in Chinatown and loved it. He was the last person to lead a crusade against all things Chinese.