The Buddha of Brewer Street

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘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?’

  EIGHT

  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.

  There was also the fact that even if ‘the enemy’ in this case was the Chinese Government, how could they have known where Kunga was? Only a few Tibetans had known that, plus Goodfellowe himself, and he hadn’t told anyone. But someone had. And that someone had to be Tibetan.

  His suspicions and frustrations grew when, later the following afternoon, they were once more gathered around his dining table. Three people manning telephones can make rapid progress through a list of names less than a hundred long. As Phuntsog explained, there was only a handful they hadn’t so far been able to contact.

  ‘And?’ Goodfellowe demanded.

  ‘That’s the problem, Mr Goodfellowe. There’s not a single boy aged two in the entire Tibetan community. Four girls. A boy aged eight months. Too young. But no one aged two.’

  ‘Impossible,’ groaned Kunga, his breath expiring as though it were his last.

  ‘What about those you haven’t been able to contact?’ Goodfellowe suggested. ‘The boy might be a member of one of those families.’

  Phuntsog shook his head. ‘All those families are known to other Tibetans, who say there is no such child.’

  ‘But …’ Goodfellowe clenched his fists in exasperation. But what?

  ‘The child doesn’t exist,’ Phuntsog said.

  ‘He has to,’ Kunga insisted. ‘He must exist. Too many people have already died for him not to exist.’

  Frasi was agitated. ‘All around the country, wherever there is a Tibetan family, it seems there are Chinese. Waiting on the doorstep. Watching. Asking neighbours about the children. Offering money for the right information. Like bounty hunters. Some Tibetan houses have been broken into. Already one attempt has been made to snatch a baby from its mother’s arms. There is still much danger.’

  ‘But also some relief,’ Goodfellowe offered. ‘If they’re still searching it means they haven’t found the child either.’

  ‘Many Tibetan families are not happy,’ Frasi continued. ‘They blame us for bringing them this trouble. Many have difficulty believing that the reincarnation of His Holiness could be born in Britain.’

  ‘Frankly, I have trouble believing it, too,’ Phuntsog added.

  ‘Phuntsog!’ Kunga exclaimed in disbelief.

  ‘So if the child exists, where is he?’ Phuntsog demanded in his own defence.

  The teamwork these colleagues had managed to mount was visibly fraying at the edges. ‘What are we to do, Tummo?’ Kunga asked. All their faces were turned in his direction, looking to him for guidance. They were out of their depth. He was none too sure of his footing, either. He very much wished he’d never started with this.

  ‘We must work on the assumption that the child is here in Britain,’ he began. ‘And that somehow, in ringing around, one of you has missed him. So – we exchange telephone lists. And start all over again.’

  ‘What are you suggesting …?’ Frasi exclaimed.

  ‘Or suspecting?’ Kunga enquired more softly.

  ‘… that we have made a mistake? Missed someone out?’ Angrily Phuntsog pushed the three telephone lists across the table at Goodfellowe.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘But not by accident,’ Frasi continued.

  ‘Which is why I suggest you exchange telephone lists and start all over again. To double check.’

  ‘You suspect one of us, Tummo?’ Kunga asked grimly.

  ‘Someone betrayed you, Kunga Tashi, almost got you killed. They would also betray the child.’

  There was a long and awkward silence as they looked around the table at each other – which one was it? – before Phuntsog turned to the monk. ‘Why should we listen to this man, Kunga Tashi?’

  ‘Because he is one of us.’

  ‘He is a foreigner. He lives among the Chinese.’

  ‘Nevertheless …’

  Slowly, as though moving bars of gold, Goodfellowe pushed the telephone lists back across the table. Without another word and with a prolonged scowl from Phuntsog, the Tibetans left.

  There was only one piece of good news that day but it was the best. She was back. He called as soon as he got her message.

  ‘Damn it, but I’ve missed you,’ he began as soon as he heard her voice.

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘I’ve missed your body, too.’

  ‘That’s also good to know.’ She laughed. It merely encouraged him.

  ‘I want it. I want you. Right now.’

  ‘Fine, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  Goodfellowe was stunned. His jaw dropped. How many men …?

  ‘Oh, Goodfellowe, you’re such an idiot,’ she interrupted his thoughts. ‘It’s no fun pulling your leg when you make it so easy.’

  He couldn’t find the right words, or indeed any words. Her tone softened.

  ‘It’s been that tough without me?’

  ‘Tougher.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Sorry to be so dense. A sense of humour bypass. While you’ve been playing havoc in foreign parts, foreign parts have been playing havoc with me.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘A long story. Which I desperately want to bore you with. Tonight. Please. Come over, Elizabeth.’

  ‘To be bored? Sounds irresistible.’

  ‘What if I also said that I want to bonk your brains out?’

  ‘That’s better. You’re improving.’

  ‘I’m stuck in the House until ten, I’m afraid, but after that …’

  ‘Hmmm. You’re suggesting I bring my toothbrush.’

  ‘In the morning I’ll make you the finest cup of Souchong you’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m strictly a ground-coffee girl.’

  ‘So come over and we can argue about it. In the morning.’

  ‘But I’m dog tired after my trip around France,’ she countered.

  ‘And I promise to keep you up all night.’

  ‘In which case … That is a promise, is it, Goodfellowe? To keep me up all night? Not just another of your idle threats?’

  ‘I’m a politician. You can trust me.’

  ‘Then there’s only one thing to do.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I shall bring my own coffee.’

  Sam and Edwina were in a hurry. There was a train to catch. They’d had an enjoyable meal, in the circumstances, sweetcorn and crab meat soup, fried seaweed – Edwina’s favourite – and a shared plate of Singapore noodles. Less than a fiver a head at Mah’s Kitchen, and the owner didn’t mind their stinginess. Sam had eaten there often with her father; Mah was always glad to see her. And both Sam and Edwina, the closest of friends, always felt in need of a little fortifying after their visits to the pregnancy clinic.

  They were on half term and staying with Edwina’s mother. After their last row, Sam was avoiding her father and anyway he was up to his eyes in parliamentary work. As always. Even worse, he had explained to her that it was most unlikely the Chief Whip would allow him time off to see her Cleopatra. She took it badly. So although the direct route from the restaurant to Charing Cross Station would take them practically straight past his front door in Gerrard Street, they made a small detour to avoid it, just in case they bumped into him. Didn’t want to visit, let alone stay. A
fter all, she argued with herself, the studio apartment was so cramped, such a come-down from Holland Park. Only later did she take time to consider her feelings, then thoroughly scold herself. A come-down it might be, but he was the sad, mad mongrel who had to live there.

  They were a little late. Mah had delayed them with a free dessert, egg-custard tarts, and they were hurrying now. Sam wouldn’t normally have used the quiet alleyway that cut through towards Little Newport Street, not at night-time, but it would save them a few necessary seconds. It seemed clear, apart from the binned rubbish outside the barber’s shop, and it was less than fifty yards long.

  As soon as they turned into it, Sam realized she had made a mistake.

  A leering wolf whistle came first, then two Chinese youths were pushing past them to block the way ahead. Another four followed behind, and increasingly closely. They were all wearing jeans and sneakers, with T-shirts or windcheaters, most of which were emblazoned with Hollywood logos.

  ‘Please let us pass,’ Sam said, trying to sound unflustered as the first two youths stood in their path. They simply laughed and spread their arms to cover the way. Sam turned but the others were right behind them.

  ‘No hurry, ladies.’

  ‘We have a train to catch.’

  ‘Trains? There are hundreds of trains.’

  The youths were now surrounding them, the sense of menace growing, and backing them into the darkened doorway of the barber’s shop. The girls held hands.

  ‘I’ll scream!’ Sam spat, tossing her head defiantly. The beads amongst her braids gave the sound of a rattlesnake.

  ‘She wants to scream?’ the gang leader mocked. ‘We’ll show her how to scream.’ And the youths had whooped and shouted at the top of their voices until the sound echoed down the alleyway. No one paid the slightest bit of notice.

  ‘What do you want?’ Sam asked, knowing that she sounded very much less brave. ‘We don’t have much money.’ She opened her bag as if to show them, although in the dark they wouldn’t have been able to see.

  ‘Please … don’t hurt us,’ Edwina begged. She was trying very hard not to cry.