The Ninth Buddha (58 page)

The interior of thejMrt was conventional in design, with a central hearth in which a large fire was lit.
 
In front of the fire lay carpets and a triangular arrangement of cushions.
 
Cabinets and chests stood along the walls, and to the right of the door was an elaborate Buddhist altar, stacked with images and other ornaments.
 
Only a few lights provided any illumination.

Christopher crept forward on hands and knees.
 
At first the yurt seemed empty, then he made out the shape of two small figures seated on cushions near the door.
 
His heart gave a leap as he recognized William and, beside him, Samdup.
 
A Mongol guard had been placed to watch over the two children.
 
His back was towards Christopher, and he appeared to have dozed off”.
 
The barrel of a rifle jutted out above his left shoulder.

Christopher continued to creep forward.
 
Suddenly, he froze.

William had caught sight of him.
 
Desperately, Christopher motioned to the boy to keep still.
 
But William could not contain his excitement.
 
He reached a hand out to Samdup and pointed eagerly in Christopher’s direction.

What Christopher feared happened.
 
The guard’s attention was drawn by the boy’s sudden activity.
 
He stood and, turning, caught sight of Christopher and his companions.

The guard shouted and raised his rifle.
 
He fired too hastily, without taking proper aim.
 
The shot missed Christopher by inches, giving him time to move into a crouching position.
 
As the guard aimed for his second shot, Christopher fired.
 
The man staggered, dropped his rifle, and fell back on to the altar, sending its contents crashing in all directions.

The door-flap opened suddenly and the guard who had been keeping watch

at the entrance came running in.
 
Christopher fired before the

newcomer’s eyes had time to adjust to the light inside

“Quickly!”
 
he shouted, running towards the boys.

“We’ve got to get out of here before someone comes.”

But in spite of his sense of urgency, he had to stop to hold William and assure himself that his son was still alive.
 
Chindamani came running up behind him, taking Samdup into her arms and lifting him into the air.

There was a sound of voices outside.
 
Christopher put William down and ran to the doorway.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for William’s hand.

“Let’s go!”

But William looked up at him, tears in his eyes.

“I can’t!”
 
he cried.

“Look!”

Christopher looked down at the spot to which William was pointing.
 
There was an iron shackle on the boy’s ankle, to which a chain had been attached.
 
The chain was pegged fast to a heavy chest a few feet away.
 
Samdup had been chained in the same way.

Christopher let out a cry of rage.
 
He bent down and picked up the guard’s rifle, lifting it as a hammer to break the chain away from the chest.

At that moment, there was a sound of running feet outside.
 
The door-flap was raised and several men came in.
 
They were all armed. The last one held the flap up.
 
A moment later, Nikolai Zamyatin stepped into thejwf.

Christopher dropped the rifle and his pistol.
 
Zamyatin smiled.

“You’re just in time for the party,” he said.

“The festival begins in a few hours’ time.
 
I have a celebration planned.”

He had coughed up blood so many times recently, the sight of yet more in the bowl scarcely frightened him.
 
It made him angry more than anything, angry yet impotent, for it was his own body that was in a state of rebellion, and he could hardly order himself taken out and shot.
 
He intended to die on the battlefield, even if he had to drag himself there on his hands and knees; but each time he expectorated blood now, a tiny stab of doubt entered his mind.

Perhaps the thing that was eating his lungs away would finally cheat him of the hero’s death he craved.
 
There was no glory in spitting this pink fluid into a steel bowl.

The boy had slipped through his net.
 
From reports now being received, it was clear that he and the man with whom he was travelling had made their way clear across the vast plains between Uliassutai and Urga, and that, in all probability, they were already here, within the city, indistinguishable among its multitudes, secret, hidden, walking down darkened alleyways in the dead of night.

He had been sent heads, dozens of tiny heads, enough to fill ten copper chests and more, but still the boy had escaped him.
 
The heads had arrived daily, sewn up in sacks of leather or hessian, the blood on them dried and sticky, and on their heels reports had come of sightings further east or talk of the boy’s presence in scattered yurts far from the beaten track.
 
The boy had eluded his best efforts to hunt him down, and now he was making ready to challenge him here, at the heart of his kingdom.
 
It was time he saw the Khutukhtu again.
 
Time he warned him of the consequences if the boy could not be found in the next forty-eight hours.

He hastily covered the bowl with a cloth as the sound of feet approached the door of his yurt.
 
He heard the guard come to attention, then a voice tell him to stand at ease.
 
The door-flap opened and two men entered: Sepailov and a European in a white suit.
 
Why couldn’t Sepailov deal with these men on his own?
 
He knew he needed no permission to have a man flogged, or for that matter, hanged.

Sepailov saluted rather sloppily, Ungern thought.
 
The colonel’s uniform was soiled and torn in places.
 
For that alone he should be shot, Ungern decided.
 
He hated the Russians, above all the military men.
 
All he wanted was to wage war with his Burials and Chahars, his Tartars and Kalmaks.
 
The rest could go to hell for all he cared.
 
They were just passengers, and some of them weren’t even paying their fare.

“Yes, Colonel Sepailov?”
 
he said.

“Who is this man?
 
Why are you bringing him to me?”

Sepailov swallowed hard.
 
He noticed the bowl on the table, near a pile of papers he had given the baron earlier for his signature.

Ungern thought no-one but himself and the camp physician knew of his ailment.
 
But Sepailov knew.
 
And he also knew that when Ungern had been coughing blood his behaviour became even more erratic than normal.

Winterpole did not wait for the colonel to make his introduction.

“My name is Major Simon Winterpole of British Military Intelligence.
 
You may remember that we met rather more than a year ago, General, when I visited you at Dauria.
 
I was on an official mission to Ataman Semenov at the time.
 
We were providing assistance to your people in our mutual struggle against the Bolsheviks.”

“You will have to forgive me, Major, but I do not remember you.
 
Life was very busy at Dauria.
 
I saw dozens of people every day.
 
There were representatives from several foreign powers.
 
Now, perhaps you could explain to me just what an agent of British Military Intelligence is doing in Urga.
 
Without permission.”

“But I sent a telegram to you almost two weeks ago.
 
You must have known to expect me.”

Ungern shook his head.

“No, sir, I have received no telegram from you or from anyone else associated with British Intelligence.”

He reached inside his tunic and drew out a silver cigarette case.

The family monogram had worn down badly, he noticed.
 
Perhaps it was just as well; he would certainly have no children.
 
He took out a cigarette and lit it quickly, seeking to disguise the tremor in his hand.

“I see.”
 
Winterpole began to wonder if he had done the right thing in coming to Ungern directly.

“Well?
 
I’m waiting for your explanation.
 
I am a busy man, Major.
 
At present, all I know about you is that you are a self confessed spy who has been operating in an area under my jurisdiction for an unspecified period.
 
I think you have some explaining to do.”

“I assure you, General, that I am not here on an espionage mission.
 
My own position within Military Intelligence is entirely administrative.”

Ungern exhaled a snake of scented grey smoke.

“Meaning that you get others to do your dirty work for you.”

“Meaning that I am authorized to enter into negotiations with representatives of foreign powers.
 
Meaning that I have come to Mongolia with the express purpose of making you an offer of financial and military assistance on behalf of the British Crown.”

The general half raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed?
 
I take it you carry with you credentials.”

“Of course.”
 
Winterpole started to reach inside his jacket.

“They will not be necessary for the moment, Major.
 
Now, I would like to know how you come to pay me a visit in such a hasty manner.
 
This is not normal procedure, as I am sure you are aware.”

Winterpole gave what he hoped looked like a smile.

“I came here tonight in order to bring you information.
 
Information that I believe is important to you.
 
Concerning a boy.
 
Two boys to be precise.”

He saw he had hit the mark.
 
Ungern’s flimsy composure visibly cracked.

He started as though the Englishman had raised a hand to strike him.

“Go on,” he said.
 
With a shaking hand, he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

“I know where you may find the boys .. . if you are quick.
 
I can lead you to them tonight.
 
If you are lucky, you will also be able to lay your hands on Comintern’s principal agent in this region.
 
And perhaps more than a few of his Mongol confederates.”

Ungern held his breath very still.
 
If the Englishman was telling the truth .. .

“And you,” he said, ‘what would you want in return for this information?”

“Your co-operation.
 
In return for military and financial help.

Great Britain will recognize you or anyone you choose to appoint as the Mongolian head of state.
 
We are willing to establish you here on the borders of Russia in readiness for the day when you are ready to go back to claim your own.
 
Tonight’s information is merely a start, a token of intent, no more.
 
Take it or leave it, it’s your choice.”

“Where are these boys?”

“In Ta Khure.
 
They’re being kept in a compound two streets away from the Tokchin temple.
 
There’s a large yurt what I believe the Mongols call a “twelve-Mana”.
 
And a summer-house behind it.”

Ungern looked past Winterpole.

“Do you know it, Sepailov?”

“Yes, sir.
 
We’ve been keeping an eye on it for a little while now.

It sounds very likely to me.”

“Good.
 
Send a detachment of men round there straight away.

They’re to take everyone alive if possible, except for the two boys.

Have them shot on the spot, I don’t want anyone having second thoughts.

You’d best send Russians for this job.”

“Very good, sir.
 
I’ll see to it at once.”
 
He saluted and turned to the Colonel.

Sepailov turned back again.

“Before you leave, have this man taken out and shot.
 
Do it yourself if you have time.”

Winterpole spluttered, then drew himself erect.

“May I ask what is the meaning of this?
 
I’m a representative of His Majesty’s government.
 
I have diplomatic immunity.
 
Your behaviour is most improper, General.”

Ungern stood up and leaned across the desk.
 
Winterpole blustered to a halt.
 
He had joined his army of glass, and found-Tiimself as brittle and vulgar at heart as any of them.
 
When glass breaks, it shatters, it does not splinter like wood.

“You are not a diplomat, Major.
 
You are, by your own admission, an intelligence agent.
 
Whether you are a spy or an administrator of spies, it is not for me to judge.
 
My task here is to eliminate three groups: Bolsheviks, Jews, and foreign agents.”

“For God’s sake, General.
 
We’re on the same side!”

“Not any longer,” Ungern told him.

“What do you mean “not any longer”?”

“Just that.
 
Your government has just entered into a trade agreement with the Soviets’ it was signed in March.
 
Surely you cannot pretend you did not know.”

“I assure you, I .. .”

“Your Mr.
 
Lloyd George signed it alongside Krasin, the Soviet representative, on the sixteenth of March.
 
The Russian Trade Delegation has already been granted permanent status in London.