The Buddha of Brewer Street

by Michael Dobbs

  Oh, but where in Westminster? The register didn’t say and there would be a listing of Wongs a foot long in the phone book. He was still no closer. He needed a copy of the full birth certificate with its ‘usual address’ entry. And he couldn’t afford to wait days while it was coughed up by the system.

  The line in front of the enquiry desk appeared endless. Earnest Americans sought help in establishing their ancestral link to Richard the Lionheart or John Lennon, it didn’t seem to matter which. And they all wanted the answer in the next five minutes, because the bus was leaving for the airport in twenty … This was not a time suited to diplomacy. Heedless of the damage he might inflict on transatlantic relations Goodfellowe thrust himself to the front of the queue and pulled shameless rank.

  ‘Help me. Please,’ he asked, ignoring the shouts of protest that came from all around. ‘I’m a Member of Parliament.’

  ‘Dammit, all the more reason for you to wait,’ came a voice from within the queue, a sentiment which drew immediate and general approval. The enquiry clerk, a large lady with a floral frock and sensitive disposition who had taken the job solely to protect her nervous well-being, let forth a plaintive cry for assistance. From within the small Supervisor’s office to the rear emerged a middle-aged woman who brought with her no-nonsense eyes and lips of bitter lemons. Goodfellowe explained his purpose.

  ‘You’re a Member of Parliament?’ the Supervisor sniffed, viewing her uninvited guest sceptically. It seemed improbable. He was perspiring and wild-eyed, and looked as if he’d just come from riding a bike.

  ‘Not for much longer if he goes on pushing his weight around like this,’ the voice in the queue opined.

  ‘Please, this is a matter of life and death,’ Goodfellowe implored.

  ‘So’s mine,’ the voice added, waving a certificate.

  Goodfellowe produced his House of Commons ID card, which got him away from the firing line and admitted into the glass-walled cubicle that passed as the Supervisor’s office, but it took a phone call to the Palace of Westminster switchboard before she was convinced. It was with evident reluctance that she agreed to foreshorten the procedures, her distaste for disorder overcome by the fact that the departmental budgets were due for review again, downwards, and as improbable as he looked this man might have some sway.

  ‘How quickly do you require the certificate?’ she asked.

  ‘How quick is quickest?’ he replied.

  ‘Well, I’d have to send a fax. Off to our archives. In Southport. On Merseyside,’ she added, making it sound like the back side of the Moon. ‘They’d have to find the original reference. Then fax us back.’ She sucked in her lips.

  ‘Please, how long?’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  Ten minutes that seemed to twist his bladder into savage knots. He hopped. He sat. Fidgeted. Got up. Hopped again. Prayed that the family might still be at the same address, that the Wongs hadn’t moved. Well, nobody else had. The housing market was shot to hell. For the first time in three years Goodfellowe praised the Chancellor and all his recessionary works.

  And all the while the Supervisor eyed him as though he was about to run off with her pencils. Then the fax machine began to zip and chatter. The certificate. It was coming through. He hunched over the machine, devouring every detail as it emerged.

  Place of Birth: St Mary’s, Paddington

  Father’s Name: Martin Wong

  Father’s Place of Birth: People’s Republic of China

  Father’s Occupation: Trader

  Mother’s Name: Wangmo

  Mother’s Place of Birth: Tibet

  Mother’s Maiden Surname: Rinchen

  It all fitted. So superbly well.

  Usual Address …

  Goodfellowe could scarcely believe it. He wondered for a moment whether someone was playing a sick joke. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t credible. How in the name of bloody Buddha could they have been searching all that time for a family who lived at that address?

  Brewer Street.

  In Soho.

  Less than three hundred yards from his own doorstep.

  The Supervisor resolved in future always to trust her instincts rather than the Palace of Westminster switchboard when, without another word, her uninvited and obviously unbalanced guest fled through the door.

  Brewer Street! Goodfellowe screamed to himself. It couldn’t be that simple.

  And it wasn’t.

  He felt as though he had a hand on his back, skirting Smithfields, pushing him on through Holborn. Every turn of the pedals sent his heart racing faster, heedless of traffic signals and the other dangers of the road. Much of Covent Garden was a pedestrian precinct; he hurtled through regardless, coat tails flying and bell jangling in alarm as shoppers turned to shout curses after his fleeting form. Disaster almost struck as he tried to negotiate a tight turn while using his mobile phone; a waste bin went tumbling, leaving behind him a turbulent wake of drink cans and fast food wrappers. And it was fortunate that the traffic in Charing Cross Road had been brought to its habitual standstill, backed up all the way from Trafalgar Square, because he gave it no heed as he hurtled out of the side street and charged into the precincts of Chinatown. Pedals flying, wrenching at the handlebars, shouting for passage, he pounded on, his legs like pistons, down Gerrard Street and onto Wardour. At the point where it crossed Shaftesbury Avenue he had no choice but to dismount and push his bike across the intersection, but he was now only fifty yards from the entrance to Brewer Street and the traffic here was quiet. Too quiet. At the corner, in front of the Ann Summers sex shop and ‘Peeperama’, he tried to jump the kerb, but something on his machine bent or came loose because now there was a distinct wobble to his progress. And as he rounded the corner he could see why the traffic wasn’t moving. Blue and white security tape had been stretched across the road. Two police cars with lights flashing were parked across the road, a third was arriving from the other direction. He knew what it meant. He was too late.

  It was not inevitable, perhaps, that the Chinese would get there first, but it had been inevitable that they would get there eventually. While Goodfellowe had relied on inspiration and intuition, they had simply broken down doors, first at all the obvious locations then at locations that grew ever more obscure. But anything with a Chinese link qualified, anything that bore a Chinese face, even an inconspicuous dry-cleaners in Brewer Street. It could only have been a matter of time and, after Mo had raised the reward, that time had run out increasingly rapidly. Goodfellowe had lost the race, only by minutes, but in a world of desperate men and women that was more than enough. There were no prizes for also-rans.

  His way was barred by a constable. Goodfellowe waved his House of Commons pass once more. ‘I know the family,’ he insisted, and was allowed through. The door to the apartment was open, the stairs leading up were crowded. The main room was chaos. An upturned table, a weeping woman, a distraught father and more policemen than the room could comfortably hold. A WPC was bringing tea from the kitchen. A small brass bodhisattva stared forlornly from the small shrine on the wall.

  A detective sergeant recognized him and took him to one side. A child, snatched in broad daylight, he explained. No apparent reason, no immediate explanation, but – his voice dropping – a difficult area this, with its strip joints and assorted low life. Could be a gang matter. Everyone involved was Chinese. Except the woman, apparently, and she was some other form of Oriental. ‘Not much for you here, sir. Bit crowded. Appreciate your interest, but best if you leave.’

  Which is what he did. There was no point in staying. He had failed. The child was gone.

  Outside in Brewer Street it had begun to snow. The middle of May yet it fell grey and chilling, right across London. An omen. As though the whole world was losing its way.

  Alerted by his death-defying call on the mobile phone, they were waiting for him on the other side of the security tape, their senses in the grip of winter.

  ‘The child gone?’ Frasi’s voice ha
d a sharpness to it, almost a tone of indictment.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is the end of everything,’ Kunga whispered.

  Wangyal could find no words, the tears streaming down his cheek witness to his utter misery.

  ‘You have failed us,’ Phuntsog said, without adornment. He could always be relied upon.

  ‘You are harsh, Phuntsog,’ Kunga rebuked.

  ‘Am I? We search in one place, then he tells us search in another. When all the while we should have been looking here.’

  ‘Our enemies have been powerful.’

  ‘And kept most powerfully informed. Often by Minister Goodfellowe.’

  ‘He cannot be blamed. No one is to blame.’

  ‘We have lost our great protector, our homeland, everything. Yet you tell me no one is to blame? The very soul of Tibet has been destroyed, Kunga Tashi.’

  ‘We have tried …’

  ‘You cannot wash your hands so easily …’

  ‘It could have been so very different …’

  As the snow fell they began to argue amongst themselves and to lay blame for failure. Goodfellowe felt no anger with them, not even with Phuntsog’s accusations, for their hearts had been ripped out in front of them and pain was inevitable. Yet he felt soiled. He had helped bring them to this point, where friendship was dying along with their hope.

  Eventually the melting snow underfoot began to find its way through their soles and to freeze their need for recrimination. They had argued themselves to sullenness. This group of men represented the future of Tibet, and now it was nothing but fragments. The tears in Wangyal’s eyes welled ever more openly.

  ‘I apologize, Tummo,’ Kunga offered. ‘We have abused your kindness.’

  ‘It is I who have abused your trust. You relied on me. I failed. It was my fault as much as anyone’s that we didn’t get here in time.’

  ‘But without you we would not have got here at all.’

  Brewer Street stood drab and silent in the snow. The policemen on duty had sought shelter, the other spectators had fled to the warmth indoors. It was like a Lowry painting, colours faded and mournful, with five round-shouldered men bound together only by defeat.

  ‘What should we do, Tummo?’ Kunga at least still looked to him for guidance.

  Goodfellowe wrapped his jacket tightly around him and studied the mean skies. ‘You go make your mark with the parents, Kunga. They’ll need you as much as we need them.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I don’t know about you gentlemen,’ he sniffed, blowing into cupped hands to restore his circulation, ‘but I’m dying for a cup of tea. And I think I know just the place.’

  THIRTEEN

  There had been a crackdown in Tibet. The Chinese were taking no chances. As the search for the child had intensified, their net had been thrown wide and anyone associated with the Dalai clique had been hauled in for questioning. Monks, nuns, former officials, teachers, particularly elderly abbots, anybody who featured on the political files of the Ministry of State Security – and there were thousands – had been questioned, then frequently cudgelled and bludgeoned. And, in almost every case, locked up.

  Under Chinese occupation, imprisonment had become Tibet’s largest and fastest growing industry. Even though peasants starved, more resources had been thrown at it than agriculture. While Tibetan schools were closed across the land, new gaols appeared like lambs in spring. Yet still there were not enough, for the prisons overflowed. Prisons like the notorious Drapchi, Prison Number One, a few kilometres north of Lhasa. During the days of independence the place had been best known for its holy shrine, but the Chinese had turned it into a site for what they termed an institute of re-education, intended to accommodate up to eight hundred ‘scholars’. Now it held nearly two thousand as Tibet was assailed by a deluge of despair. The prison authorities had little idea for what precise reason or for how long these people were being held but, since they were Tibetans, what did it matter? The cells overflowed, every corner was filled, even those that were designed for purposes other than simple incarceration. Like those places reserved for political prisoners in Unit 5, cells that were less than five feet high and in which no one could stand erect. And those cells where the floor was constantly six inches deep in water and filth and where a single night left most inmates crying for feeling back in their limbs.

  A cauldron of sorrows.

  And as snow fell across Brewer Street, a great shaking of the earth hit Lhasa. Buildings trembled, people ran in terror through the streets, the skies darkened like night as they filled with dust. Many thought it heralded the end of the world. Cracks and fissures appeared everywhere, in roads, through walls and roofs and across the passions of everyone in the capital. Yet this was no ordinary earthquake. Nothing fell down. Not a building nor a single bridge collapsed. It was a portent, of that few had any doubt, a warning of what was to come.

  In Drapchi gaol they discovered that the shifting ground had caused a subtle change to the geometry. No cell had burst, no bars had been breached, but instead the locked doors throughout the gaol had stuck firmly in their jambs. They couldn’t be opened. And if they were, there was the thought that the whole stinking place might collapse around them.

  So what? The Institute of Geological Sciences predicted that there would be more shocks which might finish off the job. These strange superstitious Tibetans might yet be crushed by their own ungrateful gods. So leave them there! Stuck fast behind the doors. It would save their gaolers the trouble of throwing away the keys.

  It was a slow and tiring cycle ride all the way up to Hampstead Heath. He’d buckled the front wheel going over the kerb outside the sex shop and it squeaked in protest with every turn. It made steering difficult in the snow, which was beginning to settle both upon the road and upon Goodfellowe himself. Perhaps he should have gone by Tube after all, his destination was just along from Golders Green Station, but he needed the fresh air and the time to think.

  He gambled that she would have taken the child to the Residence rather than the Embassy, where there were too many prying eyes. Madame Lin would not be proud of what she had done and would have little wish to parade a captive two-year-old. But the child would need to be secure, on diplomatically protected soil, until he was flown out on a diplomatically protected flight. So it had to be the Residence.

  It lay just off the Heath, a sombre red-brick Gothic mansion that stood behind high walls, its entrance protected by heavy metalwork gates and a phalanx of obtrusive security devices. Outside Goodfellowe slithered precariously to a halt, the brakes jammed with slush and all but useless. He was feeling distinctly damp around the collar where the snow had melted and trickled down his face and neck. In normal circumstances he would have considered this a first-class workout. Now it appeared little short of madness.

  He rang the intercom. He could feel the presence of the red-eyed security camera watching him, but there was no answer. He rang again. Still nothing. Perhaps the intercom wasn’t working. Or perhaps he’d got this all wrong and they weren’t here. The place looked almost abandoned. The rhododendron bushes were unkempt, the silver birch bent in sorrow, the driveway was covered in moss and old leaves. A garden hose trailed along the side of the short drive; it didn’t appear to have been used or moved for some time. A fruitless journey. Another screw-up, one amongst so many. He stood pressed up against the wrought-iron gate, peering forlornly through its bars.

  Then he saw her, looking out through the snow from one of the leaded windows on the first floor. She was staring directly at him. There was a curious cast to her eyes, not the arrogance of victory but something that might almost be mistaken for compassion. He brushed damp hair from his eyes, returning the stare, trying to hate, but failing. How could he hate her? They were too much alike. All he could offer was futile defiance. Then she stepped back out of sight.

  A moment later the buzzer rang and the automatic gates swung apart.

  The bicycle made an uncertain track through the
snow to the heavy wooden front doors. Standing before them, Goodfellowe made an attempt to shake the snow from his clothes but they were now so wet that the effort met with only modest success. Then the doors opened and he was ushered inside by an elderly Chinese servant who appeared to have a limp and only one tooth. He spoke no English but there was no mistaking the surprise on his face as he examined Goodfellowe and the puddle that was already beginning to form beneath him on the marble floor. With a quick bow of apology the servant disappeared, returning a few seconds later with two warm, dry towels, one for his hair and the other for him to stand on. It was only now he was standing in the dark hallway that Goodfellowe realized how bitterly cold he had become.

  ‘An omen, perhaps?’ Madame Lin appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘The weather is an omen?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Goodfellowe concurred, finishing the running repairs to his hair. ‘But the skill is not in recognizing an omen. It is in deciding what it means.’

  ‘And what do you believe such snow means, Thomas?’

  ‘That many cricket matches are about to be abandoned.’

  ‘Perhaps many kingdoms, too.’

  ‘Ah, but which ones? Omens don’t tell us such things. That is for you and me to decide.’

  ‘Then I believe the decision is already made.’

  He threw the towel in the corner, an aggressive gesture. ‘I’ve come for the child.’

  ‘Of course you have.’

  ‘You admit he’s here?’ He looked around as though expecting to see some sign.

  ‘I see no point in denying it. Not to you.’

  ‘You can’t take him back to China, you know.’ He sounded defiant, but didn’t feel it.

  ‘But Thomas, he is already in China. This is a diplomatic residence. Legally it is Chinese territory. Foreign soil. You have no power here.’