Charlie’s Apprentice (18 page)

‘We’re talking generally.’

‘I don’t think we are,’ rejected Snow. ‘I have done nothing – nothing
whatsoever -
to cause you any official concern. But we are not allowed to preach or engage in any sort of religious observance involving the Chinese. So we do not. As Li discovered when he came to the class. When he went into the church, it would have been obvious to him it was unused. We don’t
preach:
do anything to offend the authorities. So there is absolutely nothing for you to worry about: nothing that
can
be worried about.’ He wasn’t sure the diplomat was accepting anything of what he was saying.

‘Father Robertson seems to think otherwise,’ reminded Samuels, in virtual confirmation of Snow’s doubt.

Snow sighed, carelessly. ‘You know what happened to him, during the Cultural Revolution. It effectively broke him. I think it’s a mistake for the Curia to let him remain here: I know it’s at his own request but I think it is putting too much strain upon a man who has already suffered enough.’

‘I felt it necessary officially to advise London,’ announced Samuels.

‘I would have welcomed the opportunity to give my version of the episode.’

‘I really must be circulating,’ said Samuels, gazing enquiringly around the room again.

‘It would be unfortunate if a biased account misled London,’ said Snow, unwilling to be put off like some minor irritant.

Samuels came fully back to Snow, frowning at the remark. ‘I made my report completely factual: I did not give a biased account.’

‘If it was based entirely upon what Father Robertson told you it must have been biased.’

Samuels mouth tightened, giving his long face a pinched look. ‘I did not overstress the matter.’

Would whatever Samuels had written percolate through to the department to which he reported? Before Snow had time to consider his own question, he at last saw Walter Foster. The embassy liaison man was at the extreme end of the large room, with a mixed group of English and Chinese businessmen: from the way his head was moving back and forth Snow inferred the man was helping with a translation difficulty. ‘I would like to think you’d add to your report, giving my version of events.’

‘What
is
your version of events?’

‘That I was assigned an over-zealous escort for part of a journey through southern and eastern provinces of the country. During that journey I did nothing to cause any official offence. Towards the end of the trip, there was some discussion about my being a priest and I invited the man to visit the mission when he returned to Beijing. This he did. Again there was nothing to cause any official offence.’

‘I see,’ said Samuels, stiffly.

‘Will you add that?’ pressed the priest.

‘If London seek further clarification,’ promised the diplomat, unconvincingly.

‘Not otherwise?’

‘Wouldn’t there be a risk of indicating an importance you insist does not exist if I send an additional report?’ said Samuels. Once more the room was examined. ‘I really must start moving around.’

Snow thought Samuels’ response showed the typical convoluted thinking of the diplomat milieu. ‘Perhaps if there is any further exchange, we could talk again before you report back? It’s very easy for me to come up from the mission at any time.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Samuels, distantly noncommittal. ‘And be a good chap, don’t keep openly referring to it as a “mission” as you are doing: gives the impression that it really might be used for religious services, don’t you think?’

Snow eased his way through the crush of the now full room, beyond anger, gripped by helpless impotence at what he considered to be a pointless conversation. The one reassurance he kept repeating to himself was that it did not matter how irreversibly slanted Samuels’ memorandum had been: in no way could it affect his remaining in China. It would still have been better to have had his say, to counter the hysteria of Father Robertson.

Foster, whose official embassy description was that of a cultural attaché,
was
translating. Snow approached from the rear of the cluster of men, behind Foster, able to hear quite a lot before the man became aware of his closeness. He detected several words where the vital nuance in the Mandarin pronunciation came close to giving a completely wrong interpretation of what Foster was trying to convey. Foster’s concentration faltered when he finally saw Snow and he had to ask one of the British businessmen to repeat himself, to complete the bilingual exchange. It was a further ten minutes before an official Chinese translator rejoined the group, but even then Foster lingered, clearly reluctant to break away until Snow very obviously started forward to make the contact on his terms.

Foster intercepted him but said, vehemently: ‘Not now!’

‘Now!’ demanded Snow.

‘It’ll be easier after the lunch.’

‘Walk with me towards the canapés table,’ ordered Snow. ‘There is more you have to know.’

‘More!’ Instead of walking casually, the man actually stopped, staring directly at the priest. Snow kept going, making Foster hurry to catch up. ‘How much more?’

‘You haven’t talked with Samuels?’

‘No!’ said Foster, anguished.

Having reached the canapes table, both had to go through the pretence of selecting hors-d’oeuvres. Snow picked up another glass of orange juice.

Snow waited until they moved away before recounting Li’s visit, aware of Foster visibly flushing: the man’s face became redder and therefore seemingly more freckled than normal by the time Snow finished.

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Foster. ‘There can’t be any doubt, not now!’ As always at times of stress the man began darting looks around him, as if fearing he would be seized at any moment.

‘There’s no proof, of anything.’

‘There doesn’t have to be, not in China. You know that. And how the hell are you going to explain why you can’t produce the Shanghai photographs? You’ve got to get out. Like I’m going to. I’m empowered to make the decision myself. So I’m making it for you, as well. I’m ordering you to leave with me.’

Snow regarded the other man evenly. ‘You can’t. I only officially obey the Curia, at the Vatican.’ People were gathering near the main door, preparing to file through into the banqueting room. Snow saw that Father Robertson was beside Samuels, although they did not appear to be talking very much.

Foster was momentarily open-mouthed at the obvious truth of Snow’s statement. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’

‘It’s the unarguable fact,’ said Snow, calmly. ‘And I don’t in any case see the need to panic: even if I had the freedom to leave I would not.’

‘You’re being absolutely foolish.’

‘It’s rational, sensible thinking.’ Snow was surprised – and glad – at how easily he was breathing. He felt no tension at all now.

Foster was briefly silent. ‘I read what you told London: about not working any longer with me.’

‘I gave the undertaking that you could,’ reminded Snow.

‘None of this is my fault,’ insisted Foster. ‘You brought investigation upon yourself.’

‘There is no investigation!’ said Snow, brusquely. ‘At the moment you are my only link with London. I’m asking you fully to advise London of Li’s visit. But
don’t
make it any more sinister than it is: which is hardly sinister at all. The one thing I
do
need, however, are copies of the photographs.’ Abandoning an earlier unease, he went on: ‘It must be scientifically possible to treat them to take out what I got in the background in, Shanghai. The ones that can’t be altered I will say spoiled in the developing.’

‘He won’t believe that,’ said Foster. ‘No one would.’

‘Ask London to come up with a better excuse then,’ said Snow. ‘The photographs will provide an obvious first meeting, with whoever it is I am to liaise with in the future.’

‘London won’t continue with anything, not after this!’ predicted Foster, adamantly. ‘It would be madness!’

‘Wouldn’t it be greater madness for them
not
to continue? Surely if I don’t at least provide
some
photographs it’ll be confirmation of whatever suspicion you think Li has about me.’

‘What a mess!’ moaned Foster. ‘A complete and utter bloody mess!’

‘It’ll only become a mess if it’s mishandled.’ Did he really think that? Yes, Snow decided, positively. Li’s unexpected visit was unnerving, but that was all, at its worst. And only then to someone who allowed his nerve to go at the first uncertainty. Foster was wrong, as he was wrong about most things, in saying the Chinese did not need proof before taking action against Westerners. That might have been true during the Cultural Revolution: Father Robertson was a prime example of what things had been like then. And they still behaved as they thought fit against their own people, in the name of stability against counter-revolution, as they had in Tiananmen Square. But he was sure the ruling hierarchy were now, if belatedly, too conscious of outside world opinion to move arbitrarily against a foreigner.

‘You’re a fool!’ said Foster, quiet-voiced in final resignation. The initial redness had gone but a nerve was pulling beneath his left eye, making his face twitch.

‘You’ll tell London all I’ve said?’ There was no reason to let things degenerate into acrimony.

‘Of course I will.’

‘Exactly
as
I’ve said it?’

‘Of course,’ repeated Foster. The looks about him now were practically those of embarrassment, as if he were anxious to break off contact with someone with whom he was socially ill-at-ease.

‘I don’t want any new arrangement maintained at a distance. Emphasize that to London. I want
meetings
.’

The encounter was broken by the summons to lunch. The seating was at round tables, variously set either for groups of eight or ten. He and Father Robertson were at separate places, with a mixture of Chinese and English, obviously for the communication bridge both could provide, beyond the top-table interpreters for the official speeches. The purpose for his being at the embassy already fulfilled, Snow relaxed, although still unsure how accurately Foster – and to a lesser extent the annoyingly supercilious Samuels – would pass on what he had said.

The official speeches were predictably boring, made more so by the slowness of the simultaneous translation between the two languages. Frequently Snow had to correct misunderstandings on his immediate table and he wondered just how much was really being comprehended by the audience. Both Samuels and Father Robertson were seated directly to face him, from their respective tables. Throughout the meal and the speeches, both men studiously ignored him. Foster was on the far side of the room, with his back towards him.

Snow broke away from his table group at the end of the meal, not wanting to become inveigled as an unofficial interpreter in the afternoon seminar. Five tables away, Father Robertson was standing in what looked to be confused aimlessness, people swirling around him. Snow hurried to the man and said: ‘I think we should go now.’

The smell of alcohol was very strong from the old man. He allowed himself to be led towards the exit, not the door leading deeper into the embassy for the business conference.

As they crossed the courtyard, towards the Guang Hua Road, Snow dropped the guiding hand and said: ‘I spoke to Samuels.’

Father Robertson rallied, stiffening himself as he walked. ‘He told me you don’t think it is serious.’

‘It isn’t,’ insisted Snow, practically automatically now.

‘He said he hopes you’re right.’

‘So do I,’ said Snow, wishing at once that he hadn’t: it made it seem as if he were unsure and he wasn’t, not at all.

Nineteen

They met again at The Spaniards, so Charlie Muffin guessed she lived somewhere in the Swiss Cottage or Hampstead area. As before he got there first, managing one drink ahead of her arrival. She was shiny-faced again. The top, over the same jeans, was all-enveloping but a different colour, tonight a subdued brown. Charlie hadn’t ordered for her, in case she wanted something different, but again she chose beer. He waited until the second drink before suggesting dinner again. She accepted after a token hesitation.

Charlie let the conversation drift for a while before saying: ‘Surprised I haven’t heard by now from the stony Miss Elder.’ He decided, too late, that it was a clumsy effort but the other toss-and-catch conversation was becoming a pain in the ass.

Her reply was interesting. ‘Do you think she’s stony?’

‘Rocklike,’ he insisted. Exaggerating, he said: ‘She frightens the shit out of me.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s true,’ persisted Charlie. ‘Miss Elder is the original ball-breaker. No humanity. No feeling.’

‘You’re wrong.’

What the hell did that mean? ‘I don’t think I am,’ he said, inviting the contradiction.

‘Professionally, maybe. She can be very kind, otherwise.’

That hadn’t come out as well as he’d wanted. ‘Well hidden,’ he said, still encouraging a contrary argument.

‘She’s definitely very controlled,’ agreed the girl.

Still not good enough, judged Charlie, signalling for more drinks. ‘She was hard-assed towards me. Take it or leave it ultimatum: except that I couldn’t leave it. The other choice was to be a caretaker.’

The idea amused Julia. She sniggered and said: ‘I don’t really see you as a caretaker.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Charlie. ‘So here I am, stuck.’

‘Maybe things will change, in time.’

A pointer, from some inner-circle knowledge! seized Charlie. Or a casual, meaningless remark? Pressing the exchange, he said: ‘I’d certainly like to think so.’

‘What’s so important, about being actively operational?’

‘It’s what I know how to do.’

‘You seem to have adjusted well enough to the new role.’

That
had
to be an indication. But then she’d already intimated he’d done well with John Gower. Very briefly – contravening his own prohibitions on personal involvement – Charlie thought of the young and eager entrant, hoping that whatever assignment Gower was given would work out all right. Charlie was the first, with his Teflon-edged cynicism, to acknowledge it was impossible to generalize, but he tried to convince himself that it should do: Gower had learned a lot, even if everything he’d tried to teach the man hadn’t been absorbed to the point of it being reflexive. He said: ‘It might be nice, to be told.’