His hand trembled, and not simply from the fact that he was scalding his fingers. More confusion and fear. Fear for Sam. Fear for himself. He’d already lost a son and a wife. How much more could he take?
He knew he was not well equipped to deal with this dilemma. His sense of judgement was distorted, his emotions still too bruised from his own life to be able to cope adequately with hers. Which was why he had relied so heavily on Elizabeth’s advice. Advice which so far he had embellished to catastrophic effect. Sam hadn’t spoken to him in more than a week. The rollercoaster of their relationship had come off the rails once more. And Elizabeth, just when he needed her, was away tasting wines in France. With fellow restaurateurs. With other men. Drinking. Laughing. Letting them fall in love with her. Suddenly he was having trouble breathing.
He knew he must not make the wrong decision, yet he had no clear idea what ‘the wrong decision’ was. Did that imply there was ‘a right decision’ in such circumstances? If there was, it’d slipped past him damned quick. But he knew that what above all else would be wrong would be for Sam to face that most transforming decision of her life alone, by herself. It must ultimately be her decision, but she would need support to make the right choice, and still more support if the choice she made was wrong. She needed her father, even though at the moment she didn’t want him. He closed his eyes and wept inside.
How long had it been? She must’ve been pregnant at least nine or ten weeks. He wept a little more. If she remained silent he’d have to confront her, and soon. He would risk losing her, but she risked losing herself if it was left any longer. Time to come off the fence. He would give her three weeks. Three weeks from today. No more. Three weeks. That’s all the time they might have left.
* * *
The leafy avenue of Prinsengracht was within walking distance of Amsterdam’s red-light district but belonged to an altogether different world. Stately, secure, a little sedate even. Lined by banks, bakeries and bourgeois florists, with not a knocking shop in sight. Which made it an excellent cover for the many skulduggeries practised by little Mo’s cousin.
He’d come a long way since he’d arrived in this city and earned his first few guilders by running errands for the punters in one of the smoke-filled hash cafés. Now, several years and an amnesty for illegal immigrants later, he occupied a large studio and a workshop overlooking the Prinsengracht from which he ran a lucrative business in Oriental antiques.
The Mo cousins had been born in northern Jiangxi province. In Jingdezhen, to be precise. Which produced ceramics. Not just ordinary ceramics but some of the finest pieces ever known to mankind. Legend insisted there hadn’t been a moment in two thousand years when the fires of the kiln had ceased to burn, a sight that had inspired the poet Longfellow to verse: ‘Three thousand furnaces that glow/Incessantly and fill the air/With smoke uprising, gyre on gyre/And painted by the lurid glare/Of jets and flashes of red fire.’ The Mo family had inherited many of the ancient potters’ skills and – far more significantly – they had also inherited some of the original potters’ moulds. Thanks to such legacies this city of fire still produced artefacts of timeless beauty in the original style. Which was part of the problem, of course, for although these artefacts might support all the aesthetic qualities of the original pieces, they didn’t support the same hugely inflated prices.
This was where Mo’s cousin came in. His skill was in taking brand new pieces still warm from the kilns and reducing them to antiquity. The moulds were the same, as were the clay and the production methods, but the pieces didn’t have the special patinas and markings that came from centuries of being exposed to the elements or, in some cases, being buried underground. So Mo’s cousin would scrape the rims, corrupt the glaze, embellish and undermine with time. Dull clay was transformed to the finest blue and white or underglaze red, Ming mark, Yuan mark, all the items most sought after in the galleries of Europe.
He also brought in other ceramics, from factories in Macao and Taiwan, and bronzes from Thailand, all pieces of great skill and beauty, waiting simply for the patina of age to increase their value a hundred-fold. Unglazed funerary pieces were covered with layers of authentic Shandong mud from near the great burial site at Long Xing. He had the mud shipped in by the crate. Stucco pieces were nibbled at by weak solutions of liquid manure, jade aged with acid. The bronzes were a special expertise; he left them soaking in the outflow of the urinals from a local bar, after which they would reappear with the most beautiful lime encrustations that could defy the forensic abilities of all but the most diligent of dealers. Within weeks they looked as if they had been under environmental assault for a thousand years.
There were strict rules, of course, for the export of antiques from China, but in the chaos that had become the People’s Republic so much material was slipping through into the hands of unscrupulous foreign dealers that nobody bothered questioning how he kept discovering still more sources of Tang, Ming, Sung or Han. That’s what collectors wanted. And that is what the dealers got.
It was a good business – but regrettably not good enough for Mo’s cousin. The only form of security a refugee like him recognized was cash, lots of it and placed in some location the authorities couldn’t even guess at. Why bother having to rely on the state to guarantee his happiness in old age when, without the state, he could guarantee it himself?
So, ever the entrepreneur, Mo’s cousin had begun to branch out. Alongside his artefacts he had taken to packing not only forged certificates of thermo-luminescent date testing that bore the stamp of the Oxford Research Laboratory for Archaeology, but also bags of pure heroin, carefully concealed in the interior cavities of appropriate items. And through Mo’s network of Embassy contacts, many of these were smuggled out under cover of the diplomatic bag.
Business was booming, not least because of Mo and the London situation. By moving the genuine antiques around the Embassy, no one became too familiar with any one piece. The only real check was the official inventory – ‘Banshan Jar. One. 2000—3000 BC. Condition – first.’ Which, somewhere around the Embassy, is what they would find. Complete with authentic encrustations. Or so they thought. Meanwhile Mo’s cousin would have passed the authentic pieces through a dealer for a truly authentic price. Everyone was happy.
Mo’s cousin ripped off the top of the wooden packing case he had just received from London, revealing the most wondrous jade carvings, which until three days ago had adorned the main staircase in Portland Place. Another three crates were already on their way. More were promised. This was Mo’s best supply yet and his cousin celebrated. Over the next few weeks there would be little rest for his team of restorers, acid dippers, pissoir plumbers, fudgers and forgers.
From the other side of the canal, and through the branches of a rowan tree that only slightly obscured his view, a young man watched the many comings and goings of Mo’s cousin. He sat in the window of a brown-house bar, enjoying the sharp taste of a cube of mature edam and wondering whether he could make his non-alcoholic beer stretch the rest of his watch. As stake-outs went, this wasn’t so bad. The weather was warm, the women conspicuously underdressed. And there were results. The pace of activity at the workshop had picked up, there was new business afoot. Mucky new business, if it involved little Mo’s cousin. Which was why, even in liberal Amsterdam, the Drugs Task Force of the city’s Serious Crime Squad had begun to take a keen interest in his activities.
They had begun to track every consignment in, and every one out. It had proved a curious mix. Antique porcelain and pottery. Museum pieces some. And pornography. A little marijuana, only enough for personal consumption. Traces of heroin. And lots of mud. A crate of it had arrived just last week and they’d all been convinced they’d find a dozen kilos of powder hidden in the middle, or maybe some uncut diamonds. But that’s all it was, mud. And a hell of a mess it had made in the customs shed as they poured out, sieved and threw back every single cupful. Maybe the bastard liked bathing in it.
He was a resourcef
ul fellow, this cousin of Mo, with fingers in all sorts of pies. Too many pies, the policeman concluded. The Chinaman was going to get his fingers burned.
He had suggested a light lunch, but when she opened the door of his Ministerial office in the House of Commons she could see he had more than food on his mind. Why else was he stark naked? Before Mickey had time even to giggle, Baader had scattered half her clothing and was leading her to the leather Chesterfield. There was no hint of romance, this was straightforward pillage and plunder and, right at this moment, Mickey loved it. It was crazy, he hadn’t even locked the door and could only rely on any visitor knocking first, but it seemed to be the element of risk that drove him and made him such an energetic lover. She marvelled at the way he was able to adjust his body so that he fitted not only her but also the awkward sofa, and wondered whether they’d ever get to doing it in bed. He’d probably find it boring. Unless, of course, the bed was being wheeled in broad daylight down Whitehall.
Afterwards she lay gazing distractedly at the ceiling. Was it the highest ceiling she’d ever studied, she wondered? She’d seen a few, particularly since she had broken off her engagement the previous year. Occasionally she wondered whether there might have been too many ceilings in her life, but she didn’t care to analyse things too much, let alone keep count. She’d enjoyed the variety, that she knew. Yet she’d give them all up, for just one. Preferably in a house rather than an apartment. With roses round the door.
The wall, too, told a story. Covered in cartoons and photographs. Of Baader. Standing beside the Prime Minister. Beside the President. Beside other leaders. Suddenly it all became clear. His frustration. A life spent at the shoulder of greatness, never at the centre of the stage. A man with such strength of mind, always required to follow the opinions of others. He effected a lack of concern, of course, an almost casual approach to power, but looking at these walls she understood how it must gnaw at his entrails and leave him smothered by failure. Now she knew the secret behind his bravado, his recklessness and risk taking, all this marvellously impossible sex. Although he might not admit it, Paddy Baader hated himself. Deep down, within his guts, he regarded himself as a failure, perhaps had always thought he was a failure. In politics. At university. In his marriage. In his relationship with all women. So he wanted to destroy himself. And he’d failed even in that. So far.
She found she couldn’t move. All that heat and sweat had stuck her back firmly to the leather. When finally and with some effort she sat up, the movement was accompanied with a ripping sound that left her skin raw and angry. Baader laughed, then began kissing it, soothing the pain. He had nibbled halfway down her backbone when suddenly he stopped.
‘Mickey, how much do you know about what Tom’s up to with his Tibetans?’
‘We don’t have many secrets. We share pretty much everything.’
‘Hey, should I be getting jealous?’
‘Not that, you fool!’ she laughed. ‘Anyway, the poor mutt’s in love. Terribly distracted.’
‘You bet he is. Got himself into some very deep water. Two Tibetans dead. A third … you know about the third?’
‘Kunga Tashi? Yes.’
‘Getting involved with an illegal immigrant might be very serious for him. Particularly if the immigrant ends up like the others, dead. I’m worried for Tom. He’s out of his depth.’
‘Can’t you do anything to help?’
‘Not officially. Not unless the monk comes forward and asks for protection or asylum. It’s crazy for him to be wandering the streets of London if he’s in danger. I suppose he is in London?’
‘Guess so. They met at some Tibetan restaurant. All very cloak and dagger.’
‘At least he’s not likely to starve.’
She braced her shoulders impatiently and slowly his lips began their work once more. ‘I’d like to help.’ Nibble. ‘If I can.’ Nibble, nibble. ‘Give him some advice. You know, something friendly …’ – he guided her hand – ‘but firm.’ She giggled. ‘But you know what Tom’s like. Bloody stubborn. Independent.’
‘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.’
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‘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.’
The Buddha of Brewer Street Page 16