The Buddha of Brewer Street

by Michael Dobbs

  Elizabeth picked up the phone.

  ‘At last!’ Goodfellowe exclaimed. ‘Been trying to get hold of you since yesterday morning.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she offered, but it lacked any hint of contrition. ‘Hadn’t realized that availability was part of our deal.’

  Goodfellowe’s humour died. He was in trouble again. With all his experience he should be accustomed to it, but still it froze him inside. ‘Look, I’m so sorry about the other night. But it was scarcely my fault.’

  ‘Tom, you’re always sorry and it’s scarcely ever your fault. It’s simply that your life is so full of demands you don’t appear to have much room for me any more.’

  ‘No, not so,’ he protested, and was preparing his arguments when Elizabeth interrupted.

  ‘How’s Sam?’

  ‘She’ll be fine, I think.’

  ‘I felt sure she would be. She’s a remarkable young lady.’

  ‘And so are you.’

  He heard an extended sigh, like the deflation of hope.

  ‘Tom. We can’t keep going on like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like trapeze artists, always threatening to make contact but somehow never quite succeeding.’

  ‘Don’t be impatient, Elizabeth. It’s just that this Tibet thing is—’

  ‘Is very important. You and Tibet were meant to be. And all I’m doing at the moment is simply getting in the way.’

  He groaned in exasperation.

  ‘Don’t take it too personally, Tom—’

  ‘What other bloody way is there to take it?’ he spat, provoked. She was being so ridiculously unfair.

  ‘Try to understand. We all come to relationships with experience, and my experience has been pretty unconvincing. My ex-husband could never treat me as more than someone who should be standing at the end of a long line of his daily disasters, to be dealt with if ever he found the time. Which he never seemed able to do. He couldn’t find the time to make the alimony payments, not even with a court bailiff standing on his doorstep to remind him. Then …’ – she sighed – ‘I made the pathetic mistake of sleeping with my divorce lawyer. I should have known. Because he was busy, too. No sooner had he added me to his extensive list of keenly solicited leg-overs than he found all sorts of other distressed women who required his personal attentions.’

  ‘I’m not like that.’

  ‘You’re not? But this isn’t just about you, it’s about me. I’m walking wounded, Tom, and the wounds take time to heal. And that’s more than you can give me right now. Time.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘That I don’t want to be squeezed into another man’s diary and his bed, then just as quickly squeezed out again.’

  ‘I don’t want a casual friendship, I want a commitment!’ he protested.

  ‘A commitment you can’t give yourself,’ she responded softly.

  ‘But I want to try.’

  ‘Sure, and you want to save the world, too, or at least Tibet. I don’t mean that disparagingly. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.’

  Desperately – ‘I’ll give it up.’

  ‘No, Tom. Sam was right; you’ve got to see it through. It’s crazy, out of the question, reckless, perhaps even dangerous. It’s you all over.’

  ‘But I want to see you,’ he insisted stubbornly; ‘I need to.’

  ‘After you’ve saved Tibet, Tom. Come and see me. Then we’ll talk. In the meantime we won’t have to keep finding excuses.’

  He won’t have to find excuses, she meant. But by the time he’d focused on that one, the phone had gone dead.

  TEN

  Jiang couldn’t do it, not on his own. A hundred Tibetan families with names and addresses he could cope with, but a couple of hundred thousand Chinese spread all over the place was entirely another matter. He would have to sub-contract and that, he explained to Mo, would cost more money. A lot more money. There was no register, no central list of Chinese in Britain, and a large number of them were illegals anyway so not on anyone’s list. They were scattered like leaves in autumn to the four corners of the kingdom.

  So Jiang’s men went to see the caretakers of the clan clubs. The clubs were the family associations of the Tangs, the Hans, the Chungs and many others, the focal point within the community where immigrants gathered to keep the flame alive. And at the heart of these clan clubs were the caretakers. They might live in the humblest of circumstances, squatting in their club buildings with little more than a bed roll and a toothbrush, but – and this was a central part of their responsibilities – they knew everyone. So Jiang’s men explained their purpose and handed over five hundred pounds to each, with a promise that there would be more if the child was found through any of their contacts. It was not made clear how much more would be paid, because whatever figure might be mentioned would inevitably be haggled upwards and Jiang didn’t have the time to waste. So he relied on unspecified dreams of greed to motivate his sub-agents.

  The next target was the Chinese education associations. There were hundreds of Chinese schools scattered around the country. Many operated only on a Sunday when parents sent their offspring to learn the mother tongue and the culture of the homeland, and they were hugely well attended. The Chinese were ambitious, great achievers, even the school principals. All of the principals were seen individually, and told that there would be not only great honour but much money showered on their school if one of their pupils turned out to be The Special One.

  But even above their education, Chinese value their food. So Jiang’s men approached the big food distributors, whose delivery vans visited every Chinese restaurant and supermarket in the country. The drivers were each handed fifty pounds as a down-payment to ensure that the message would be spread and a lookout maintained. It was explained that any firm, and any driver, and any food outlet, which could claim a share of the responsibility for finding the child would receive a substantial proportion of the reward fee. By this time Jiang’s men had thrown caution to the winds and were openly suggesting ten per cent, knowing that in the event it would be forced up to twenty. But so what? It wasn’t their money.

  The word was put round, on every street corner where Chinese gathered, in every restaurant, at every gaming table, through every travel agent, accountant’s office, school and social club. Find the child. Gain the glory of having claimed the Tibetan god-king for China. Honour your ancestors by being the one responsible for bringing Tibet once and for all beneath the mantle of the motherland. Oh, and by the way, get rich. One hundred thousand pounds rich. Simply for finding a child.

  Rumour grows like bindweed when fed by that sort of money. Even with so many Chinese dispersed in such a far-flung manner, it could be only a matter of days before practically all of them had heard. And even if the parents of the child might prove to be nervous or uncertain of the Beijing Government’s promises, there would always be a neighbour or friend who carried no such burden of doubt and who could find all sorts of exhilarating ways to use a hundred grand.

  But for the Tibetans, even as Jiang’s henchmen were called off from spying on their families, there was only despondency. They heard the word echoing around the streets and knew they had no means of competing. They could not find that sort of money. And they were vastly outnumbered.

  Even worse, they knew they had been betrayed. By whom, to whom and for what reason they could not know, but no sooner had they agreed on a course of action than the Chinese seemed to know exactly what they were up to. And to be that vital step ahead.

  They had known of Kunga’s hideaway.

  And of Goodfellowe’s involvement.

  Now they knew of the Chinese connection.

  Everything had been betrayed. And betrayal brought despair. Their race was all but lost.

  The pace of activity in the workshop studio of Mo’s cousin had increased to almost frantic proportions. The lights burned all night, empty cartons of takeaway food created little avalanches outside the door and Mo’s c
ousin looked exhausted. Exhausted, but happy. Even villains can take pride in their work.

  But that was his problem. He looked too happy. And too busy. Such a dramatic change in his normal circumstances was bound to excite still further the attentions of those who already doubted his integrity. Or rather, those who knew that he was a drug-dealing little creep but who hadn’t yet gathered sufficient evidence to prove it.

  So they watched ever more keenly.

  There was no proof that the crates being moved around inside the studio actually contained drugs. Some crates had come in by diplomatic courier from London and elsewhere so the Drugs Task Force hadn’t been able to touch them. They could have contained anything. But clearly they contained something, and if the contents were drugs then this would be one of the biggest operations ever.

  It could prove to be one of the classic coups of any policeman’s career. Commendations for sure, and probable promotion. And the little Oriental bastard had to be up to something. So even though there was no direct evidence and there was the worrying diplomatic connection, a combination of suspicion and ambition swayed the day. The drugs squad wanted a result, and so did the Public Prosecutor. The decision was taken. They were going to bust little Mo’s cousin.

  * * *

  Things had changed between Mickey and Baader. They had, at last, taken to bed. Yes, conventional sex. He had borrowed the keys to a friend’s house in Gayfere Street – ‘for a diplomatic meeting that required the utmost privacy’. The friend had smiled indulgently, and given instructions about coffee and clean towels.

  It was an old beech-panelled ferryman’s cottage built two hundred years ago when Horseferry Road had no bridge, and when there was nothing but the sweat of man and beast to guide people across the river. Now this worker’s cottage would probably pull nothing short of half a million pounds if it changed hands. Crazy prices. But Downing Street itself had been nothing but a speculative investment, built without proper foundations. Around Westminster not only the inhabitants but even the buildings seemed to get ideas above their station.

  Mickey wondered whether the things she was feeling might also be described as ideas above her station. For the first time they had just done it in private, without any danger of being discovered and exposed. It was such a completely different experience, with so much more meaning. Perhaps that was why he had wanted it this way. Not this time the frenzied discarding of clothes and the almost instant gratification, instead there had been a soft, tactile, mutual disrobing, a new sensuousness, taking the time to explore and discover in a way that made all the difference. He had touched not just her body but also, it seemed, a part of her heart. In the normal course of sexual events he was a buccaneer prince, but today he had seemed nothing less than a king.

  He lay cat-napping while, seemingly for the first time, she studied him up close. It was folly, of course. Not the screwing around in dangerous places, because that was up to her and him and she didn’t give too much of a damn what the world thought about it – although it might take a little awkward explaining to her mother if it ever became public. No, what was folly, she realized, as her eyes travelled across every crease of his face and around those firm, masculine lips, was falling in love with him. He was married, sure, and a quarter of a century older. He’d be dead before she was a grandmother. But she could deal with all that, in her own way, that in itself was not the folly. What was utter foolishness was that this was the wrong man, a man who would never reciprocate or return what she was willing to give. A love doomed to damnation.

  Mickey sighed, uncertain for a moment, then nestled closer beneath his arm, smelling him, wanting him. Hell, what use was folly if you couldn’t curl up and enjoy it?

  He sat in his apartment beneath the overhead light. It was a harsh, ugly light which he rarely used, but it was the first switch his hand had reached. He didn’t give a damn.

  The Black Dog was back, and had brought friends. They were sitting all around, in each corner of the room, their eyes red and sharp in the light of the lamp, waiting for him to weaken, just a little more. Then they would pounce. And they sensed it would not be long. He had known this feeling before, of being lost inside himself, particularly in the years after Stevie had died and Elinor had begun to fall ill. He had followed her down that path, pursued by the pack, although not so fast and in the end not quite so far. Not yet. But that was when he had lost his wife, his only son, his career. Now he had also lost his daughter and the woman he loved. Oh, and the Dalai Lama, too. He stank of failure.

  The half-empty bottle didn’t help, either. What was he drinking? Come to think of it, he neither knew nor cared, and not caring was another signpost down the path. He had to care, or he was lost.

  He sat in the harsh shadows surrounded by his problems, struggling to decide which of them he might do something about.

  Not Elinor. For her he could do nothing. And so far as Sam was concerned, there was still more than a week to run of his denying-she-was-up-the-duff ordinance. Elizabeth wasn’t speaking to him, in spite of the flowers he’d sent. God, she could be tough, even cruel. As for his career, he had all but forgotten what it was like to be a Minister, just as most Ministers – particularly the Prime Minister – had all but forgotten him.

  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.’