The Buddha of Brewer Street (26 page)

Which left the Dalai Lama.

And alongside every thought he had of the Dalai Lama, Goodfellowe found the overwhelming stench of betrayal. Who was it? Who was betraying them? He swirled the possibilities around in the bottom of his glass then drank deep, but found nothing except dulling uncertainty.

Was it Wangyal? He’d lost his restaurant, everything he owned, but he’d seemed remarkably philosophical about it, even for a Buddhist. So it might be Wangyal.

And what of Kunga himself? He had been the supposed target, but it was Kunga who had suggested they take a walk at the crucial moment. Convenient. Perhaps a little too convenient.

The burglaries had given Phuntsog and Frasi alibis, but were they no more than that, alibis, perhaps intended and even invented to cover the truth?

Yet although the facts might loosely fit, Goodfellowe knew they did not make sense. He had come to know these men, had seen their agonies, even that of the caustic Phuntsog, and trusted every instinct in his body that none of these would ever betray the Dalai Lama. Yet these four, and he, were the only ones who had known. The only ones.

Then the dark mists parted for a moment and he saw something he had never wanted to see that caused him to cry out in pain. He didn’t want to see this. He wanted the darkness to come back and envelop him, but there it was, right in front of him. Understanding. Which brought with it agony. And as the pain racked him his body jerked, his muscles flinched in torment. Without even being conscious of what he was doing he launched his glass against the wall where it smashed to pieces, but still it left him in misery. So he picked up the entire bottle and did the same. It left a vivid blood-coloured smear that dribbled down the wall. Like a monk’s robes melting in the fire.

To understand is to suffer, said the Buddha. Goodfellowe knew what it meant.

But there was something to be grateful for. The noise had startled the Black Dogs. They had fled in bewilderment.

When Mickey walked into his office he was standing at the mullioned window, gazing out. It wasn’t much of an office, small and cluttered, but it did have a window with a view. Again, not much of a view, because there was a balustrade that obstructed the line of sight, but with a little stretching of the neck Goodfellowe could see across the river to the brick towers of Lambeth Palace on the south bank. The view seemed to preoccupy him. The sun had caught the window, casting lurid shadows into the room, making it seem to Mickey a little like a condemned cell with the prisoner struggling for his final glimpse of freedom.

Goodfellowe didn’t turn round, simply instructed her in a quiet voice to sit down. She thought he sounded strained, distracted. There followed an extended period of silence when he didn’t move and scarcely seemed to breathe.

‘You OK, Tom?’

‘No,’ he replied simply.

‘Can I help?’

‘Too late for that.’

Another silence. Then he started.

‘I’ve always thought of you as a friend. Someone I could rely on. You helped get me through the worst times of my life. You were there for me when everyone else had disappeared, apart from Sam.’ It sounded as though he were writing an epitaph.

‘That’s what friends do,’ she responded, beginning to grow concerned at his morbid tone and the sepulchral atmosphere.

‘I shall never forget it.’ He was still staring out across the river, but his manner changed, suddenly becoming more businesslike. ‘I’m afraid this Tibetan thing has rather got the better of me. Bloody business. I wish I’d never started, I truly mean that. You know at first, when I met the Dalai Lama and was sent his book – you remember …?’

‘Of course.’

‘I viewed it as something of a game. Nothing too serious. A squabble on the other side of the world that made me giddy simply trying to think about it. Reincarnation? Child gods? What on earth did this have to do with me? But then …’ – he hesitated, reflecting – ‘it changed. Men started dying. In foreign countries, to be sure, but men I was supposed to be trying to help. And the killing didn’t stop. It was brought right to my doorstep. They tried to burn out Kunga, and didn’t seem to mind who else might have been in the building. Then it crossed over my doorstep. They attacked my daughter, invaded my home, endangered my friends. Can you understand why I’ve begun to take this very personally?’

‘For sure …’

‘But one thing above all else – above the physical dangers and sacrifices – one thing has got to me more than anything.’

‘What, Tom?’

‘The fact that the Chinese were always one step ahead of us. Not simply guessed what we were doing but knew what we were doing.’ He paused. ‘Were being told what we were doing.’

‘Being told? By whom?’

‘Ah, but isn’t that the question? I’ve even suspected Kunga himself.’

‘Could it be?’

‘No.’ Goodfellowe shook his head. ‘If Kunga wished to betray the child, all he had to do was to find him then hand him over. Like a Judas.’

‘Then Wangyal.’

‘Not Wangyal. He could have betrayed Kunga at any time yet still he protects him.’

‘So it was one of the other two.’

‘No, not Frasi, not Phuntsog. You see, they never knew Kunga was in the country, not until after the restaurant had been burned down.’ He shrugged. ‘Which only leaves
me
. Because who else knew that Kunga was in town? Who else knew that I was helping him? Who else knew that we were looking for a Chinese child? Who else could have betrayed every part of this to our enemy? Nobody!’ He turned, a faceless and threatening figure silhouetted against the window. ‘Except you.’

Mickey, normally so at home with words and wit, was suddenly stripped of all her powers. She could only stare at this menacing form in front of her as though he were quite mad.

‘There was nobody else, Mickey.’

‘You can’t seriously believe I would betray you,’ she stumbled, already in deep shock.

‘But you have. I don’t know why, but you have. There is no other explanation.’

‘Stuff your explanation. What sort of woman do you think I am?’

‘I no longer know.’

‘You … you just go swivel on it, Goodfellowe!’ she spat, thrusting her index finger into the air with great ferocity. ‘You’re out of your mind. Your brains have turned to bollocks.’

He did not respond in kind. His voice was soft, like the lining of a coffin. ‘You knew. About Kunga. About me. About the Chinese boy. And you told someone.’

‘No!’

‘You told someone,’ he insisted with rising heat.

‘I never would. I never did. I …’ She suddenly caught herself, grew defensive. ‘The only person I’ve talked to about this is Paddy Baader. But it was you who talked to him first. He knew you were involved because you bloody asked for his help.’

‘Correct. But I didn’t tell him that the boy was Chinese. Did you?’

Her jaw dropped, trembled. ‘I was only … He said … Look, you talked to him first. He told me he only wanted to help you.’

‘Mickey, did you tell him the boy was Chinese?’

Her lips were quivering in uncertainty. ‘I might have done. Yes.’

‘And about Kunga?’

‘No! You told him Kunga was here. Asked him to arrange political asylum. You told him!’

‘But I never told him where Kunga was hiding. Where he might be found.’

‘And neither did I! How could I? I didn’t know where he was staying. All I might have said was that he was above some sodding Tibetan restaurant. I never knew which one, not until it was firebombed.’

‘Oh, Mickey. Oh, Mickey. What have you done?’

She was sobbing now, gulping in air, wanting to fight but overcome by confusion. ‘What
have
I done?’

‘You told him about the restaurant.’

‘But not which one.’

‘There
is
only one. One Tibetan restaurant in the whole of the damned country.’

‘Oh, God. Are you telling me that it’s been Paddy? All along?’

‘Why? Why did you tell him, Mickey?’

She couldn’t seem to breathe, couldn’t answer. Something inside was imploding.

‘Why? What could make you tell him such things? Share such secrets?’

Her lips moved but made no sound. Then her eyes, damp and desperate, fell in shame.

‘Oh, hell, Mickey. Is it as simple and pathetic as that?’ There was venom in his voice. ‘That he’s had you on your back?’

Silence.

‘If you’d betrayed me for a great fortune, even betrayed me for a minor principle … But for nothing better than a bit of over-mortgaged prick. How low can you get?’

‘Tom, believe me, I never knew. I’ve been betrayed too.’

But her words fell on ears that would no longer hear.

‘I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, Tom. What can I do?’

She couldn’t see his eyes against the sunlight and for that would be forever grateful, but she could sense all the energy and revulsion that he focused on her. And his words she would never forget.

‘What can you do? You’re a slut. You can get out.’

The editor of
The Times
enjoyed giving parties at his extensive home in Hampstead and his favourite occasions were those when he was able to erect a marquee in the back garden and cram literally hundreds in. Even people like Goodfellowe. For his own part Goodfellowe hadn’t wanted to go, wasn’t in the mood, but it was also because of his mood that he feared not going. Sitting alone with his thoughts in the dark he knew would be corrosive. Drinks with
The Times
was in his diary, so drinks with
The Times
it would be.

Because he was not in a sociable mood he was content to linger on the fringes and feed off the conversation of others. There were many dishes from which to choose. Like the columnist pressing the Minister for what really happened in Cabinet – although it was remarkable how little pressure was truly required. Or the brusque businessman and the willowy actress sharing the confidence that life in front of the footlights could be so lonely, and exchanging telephone numbers. And the bishop and the eco-activist, disputing in increasingly lurid terms how green was God. Did bishops really require full-time chauffeurs to round up their flocks? Then there was a parliamentary colleague of Goodfellowe’s, a woman he had always regarded as mutton dressed up as crispy duck, who was demanding to know from a literary agent how much a book might be worth that would expose half the amorous liaisons within Westminster of the last ten years, including details of the dinner party for eight members where the young black waiter had worn nothing but a pinafore and a broad smile. Potentially a fortune, he had advised, but in practice very little. The lawyers wouldn’t allow it without the corroborating evidence of someone who actually took part. She puckered her lips. But it was me who took part, she purred.

The agent had just added a zero to the figure under discussion when, in the swirling current of the marquee, Goodfellowe found himself standing near to Madame Lin. She had been much in his thoughts. During his struggle over Tibet, Goodfellowe had never had any doubts that the enemy was Chinese. Not all Chinese, many of whom cared little about Tibet and who would have trouble locating it on a map, and not the ordinary Chinese with whom he lived and shared, but official Chinese. That meant the Beijing Government. And that also meant the Government’s representatives, amongst whom Madame Lin was the most senior. Nevertheless, as mayhem had followed murder, Goodfellowe had been unable to convince himself that she was directly involved. She was a grandmother, personable, cultured, had been a friend. It couldn’t be, for no better reason than he didn’t want it to be. But now their eyes met and they both knew the truth. Her eyes were not unfriendly but defensive. Wary. She knew. She was part of it. And Goodfellowe’s eyes, hard and deep-set, burned like a night sky under attack from a shower of meteorites.

He was thinking of moving away when she approached. She did not extend her hand.

‘I am sorry we should find our meeting like this difficult, Thomas.’

‘Me, too, Ambassador.’

‘There are many difficulties in leading official lives. We are not always our own masters.’

‘I think I can remember those times.’

‘I am glad you understand.’

‘Understand, perhaps. But I do not excuse, Madame Lin.’

She nodded, considering. ‘Do you not accept that there are times and circumstances when it is justified for a Government to take exceptional measures? To require sacrifice from its own people, perhaps even sacrifice of other people? At times of war, or great crisis? Such as you have had in Northern Ireland, for instance?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Tibet is our Northern Ireland. Sadly there have been sacrifices on all sides. I regret very much we are on different sides. Politics makes for bad bedfellows.’

‘But for me this is not politics, Madame Lin, this is personal. You have violated my own home. And you have attacked my own daughter. That is what I will not excuse because, before I am a politician, above all I am a father.’

‘Your daughter was attacked?’ Her voice betrayed genuine shock. ‘Please believe me, Thomas, I did not know. And I would never have allowed, particularly with your family.’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘We Ministers give orders, we do not always know how they will be implemented. You will remember how such things work, Minister Goodfellowe.’

‘I don’t remember ever giving orders to hunt down a child.’

‘He is not just a child. He is a great symbol. A great force for good or for evil. Depending.’

‘On what?’

‘On who controls him. The legitimate authorities. Or terrorists. Just like Northern Ireland.’

‘But he is a child!’ His voice was beginning to rise.

‘And I am a diplomat,’ she responded with equal force. ‘As also I was once your friend,’ she added more quietly. ‘And perhaps later, when this matter of Tibet is settled and behind us …’

He shook his head. ‘Neither of us will live that long, I fear.’

‘Perhaps not. Then maybe in another life.’ It was a strangely ambiguous note on which to finish.

‘Goodbye, Madame Lin.’

She was about to take her leave when she hesitated. ‘Oh, Thomas. I hope you will forgive me, but last week I took the liberty of sending a herbal pillow to your wife. A small gesture. I hope you will be able to accept it in the spirit in which it was sent. The spirit of friendship. It might bring her, and you, some comfort.’