The Buddha of Brewer Street

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘I could make it very tough for you. In the media.’

  ‘Thomas, Thomas. I’m glad to see you have not lost your sense of humour. Did you learn nothing from Tienanmen? You would be no more than a fly banging its head against the Great Wall.’

  ‘And I’ll ask questions in Parliament.’

  She looked down from her position at the top of the stairs, like a schoolmistress lecturing a dullard class. ‘So what would you ask the Prime Minister to do? Make an enemy of China? Sacrifice investment worth billions of pounds? Perhaps the thousands of jobs that depend on it?’ She shook her head. ‘No one could be so rash and foolish.’

  ‘You obviously don’t know the Prime Minister.’

  She laughed lightly. ‘But I do. And perhaps you are right in his case. But even if you could persuade him to become involved, even if you could convince him that the baby Jesus himself was inside the building with Herod sharpening his knives in the kitchen, there is nothing he could do. Not here. Not in China.’ Her voiced softened, no triumphalism. ‘And there is nothing you can do either, Thomas.’

  He considered the point carefully. ‘Except perhaps have tea.’

  She smiled and waved him up the stairs. ‘I have some waiting. Please join me. It’s jasmine, I’m afraid; a little gentle for your taste, perhaps. But refreshing after your long journey. I’m sorry that your time has been wasted.’

  She led the way into a sitting room full of narrow windows and light that had been made heavy by the snow. A lonely room, he realized, for a lonely woman. She poured tea from a low table while Goodfellowe started upon a tour of inspection, as though he were looking for something special. He found it above the marble fireplace, a pair of fine Tang dynasty earthenware camels partially covered in a three-colour glaze of deep emerald, brown and cream. He took one in each hand, weighing them.

  ‘Magnificent,’ he muttered.

  ‘Seventh century. I am delighted you appreciate them.’

  He held one up above eye level, examining it from all sides. ‘To look at it you’d almost think it was … why, genuine.’ He released his grip. The camel shattered into fragments in the hearth.

  ‘Thomas! Are you mad …?’

  He shuffled the broken pieces around with his toe. ‘To be honest I’ve no idea whether it was genuine or not. I’m no judge of such things. Not many people are, which is why it’s so easy to get away with good forgeries. But was that the genuine article? Or is it this one? Or are they both fake?’ The second camel fell and smashed with a sound like gunshot.

  She had stopped pouring. The smile had gone. ‘I’ve a feeling you have a message for me, Thomas.’

  ‘Tell me, is it that you are simply a common thief, albeit with uncommon access to works of art? Or are you also involved in the drugs?’

  His tone was intentionally provocative. The change of atmosphere took her aback.

  That is a remarkably insolent observation. Please explain yourself.’

  ‘But isn’t it you who’ll be required to offer some explanation? About why you’ve been involved in the wholesale theft and smuggling of antiques from the Embassy. Shipping them off to Amsterdam where they are switched for copies.’ He motioned towards the fragments in the fireplace. ‘Were those copies, by the way?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Scarcely matters. Either way they can be replaced. By copies. From your usual supplier.’

  She sipped her tea. There was the slightest tremble across the surface of the hot liquid.

  Goodfellowe, too, was trembling inside. Maybe now Mickey would forgive him, and he could forgive himself. She had found the draft letter in Baader’s red box, waiting for his signature, which had spelt out all the details. The antiques scam uncovered in Amsterdam. Its use as a cover for drug smuggling. The desire of the Dutch authorities to bring the matter to court, if the British Government would help. Baader’s firm advice that they shouldn’t, because the offence had taken place on foreign soil, Dutch and Chinese, and the Foreign Office had neither status nor interest in the matter. Baader’s recommendation had been trenchant. No action. Not this day. Not any day.

  ‘Were you involved in the drugs, too?’

  ‘What drugs? I know nothing of any drugs!’

  ‘All those antiques and copies that were moved around between the Embassy and the Residence and Amsterdam. Are you saying you didn’t know they were used as a cover to smuggle heroin? In the diplomatic bag?’

  ‘No!’ Her cup came down sharply into the saucer, threatening both.

  Goodfellowe waved a hand at her. ‘You know, Madame Lin, I believe you. Of course I believe you. The trouble is, practically no one else will, not with your connections to the Triads and particularly with Jiang.’ He was casting around wildly, indulging in pure supposition, but he had to bring her to believe he knew much more than he did. He had to find some means of scaring her. ‘I even have a photograph of you and Jiang together. At his restaurant. Remember? You’re shaking his hand.’

  Her lips had grown taut, all but disappeared. ‘I congratulate you, Thomas. A first-class attempt. But you can prove nothing, of course. And your government will not believe you.’

  ‘Oh, but where do you think I got all this from? It was the government that told me!’ he exclaimed. ‘Or at least Paddy Baader.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This isn’t my detective work.’ He was all innocence. ‘Why, I’ve never been to Amsterdam.’

  ‘Baader couldn’t have. Wouldn’t have!’ She was ruffled.

  ‘But he did.’

  ‘No. No. No.’ Her own anger took her by storm and swept her along. ‘He wouldn’t dare – couldn’t be so foolish! I’d destroy him before he even got close to me. Cut him down with his own greed.’

  ‘Greed?’

  ‘Unbounded! A man who turns whispers into profits. And now with a little money in his pocket he thinks he can turn on me?’ She fought to restore her self-control. ‘The pleasure of cutting him down to size will be for me, Thomas, and in my own time. This is not for you. You could never prove a thing.’

  ‘Proof? That Baader knew in advance about your Government’s recent order for aero engines? Or that he bought shares to profit from it? In his wife’s name, of course.’

  Her jaw dropped, her expression a mixture of admiration and anxiety.

  ‘Then there was the new bridge and harbour contract in Shanghai. Uncanny how his wife seemed to spot every single contractor who’d got a piece of the action. She’d got a little list and not one of them was missed.’ He wagged his fingers as though conducting a comic opera, mocking her. ‘And profited from it enormously. In Switzerland, of course. You might call it pure prescience. I think others will look on it more as a pension plan.’

  The desk drawers. It had all been there, in the privacy of Baader’s own home. Under lock and key. Until he screwed Mickey.

  ‘So, Thomas, perhaps you will get to Baader first. To you will go the pleasure of making him beg. First a little, then a very great deal. He will, you know. Beg. A man out of his depth. He was all too easy to control. But what will you choose to do? Control him? Or will you destroy him? Could you destroy one of your own?’

  He placed his steepled hands to his lips as though offering up a prayer. ‘“Destroy one of your own”.’ He punched out every syllable. ‘A fascinating concept. And quite relevant in the circumstances.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘But you will never destroy me, Thomas, not with your inventions about antiques and drugs and Triads. It is the stuff of novels.’ She was regaining her confidence and her will to fight.

  ‘Oh, but I think I might. On the antiques for sure, and there’s nothing new about drugs going through the diplomatic pouch. That’s all credible enough. And you see, I don’t have to prove anything, I simply have to get people to believe it. That would be enough to make your life impossible. And you’ve gone too far with the Triads. Maybe I can’t produce a written contract, but everyo
ne knows, everyone in Chinatown. Whispers everywhere. And they all lead back to the Embassy.’

  She was working hard to appear confident once more, but there were bruises around the eyes. She knew she’d been in a fight. ‘Even if it were to lead back to the Embassy, it would not lead to me. To little Mo, perhaps.’ She began counting off on her fingers. ‘The antiques operation – that began before I became Ambassador. Through Mo’s cousin in Amsterdam. The drugs I never knew anything about. And the contacts with Jiang have all been through Mo.’ She spread her arms wide as though explaining to a larger audience, or a panel of judges. ‘Why, I only met Jiang at the opening of his restaurant. As did you. I am a grandmother, I understand nothing of this talk about Triads. So you see, the waters may get choppy, but my junk will float through this little storm, Thomas. I’ll survive. But as for poor Mo?’ She returned to her tea. ‘There are always casualties in war.’

  ‘Sadly I must agree. War has no compassion, makes no distinction between young and old. It will be hard for you to bear.’

  ‘What shall I find hard to bear?’

  He was still by the fireplace. There were other items on the large mantelpiece. A clock. A jade figurine. A large rosewood framed photograph of her grandson. He picked up the photo and studied it closely. His tone was sharp. ‘Down to business. We are not here to talk about you or me. Or Jiang. Or Little Mo. Or even Baader. We are here to talk about the boy.’

  ‘There is nothing to talk about,’ she said, almost abstracted.

  ‘Tell that to Chinatown. You see, before I came here I stopped for tea. I drink too much tea, you know. A personal weakness. Coffee makes me so restless.’

  He appeared to have lost his thread, or was playing upon her patience. But she was not the patient kind.

  ‘You mentioned Chinatown.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Tea in Chinatown. And everywhere in Chinatown the conversation was of little other than the boy.’

  ‘My countrymen are great gossips.’

  ‘And it has been so for days, thanks to your efforts.’

  ‘But no more. It is finished.’

  ‘It has only just started.’

  ‘You talk in riddles.’

  ‘The riddle has been why, in spite of all that effort and the reward and even the involvement of the Triads, it has taken so long to find the boy. It’s been a mystery. Up to this point. But now they understand.’

  ‘What do they understand?’

  ‘That the boy has been deliberately hidden. By his family.’

  ‘Any family would do the same.’

  ‘Agreed! Exactly! Everyone understands that. But what family could be in a position to frustrate such a search for so long? Only a powerful family. An official family. A family who knew what was going on. A family in a position to disrupt and divert the search.’ Goodfellowe brushed an imaginary coating of dust from the photograph. ‘In other words, a family like yours. Just like yours.’

  The Ambassador offered no more than a thin gasp of surprise.

  ‘As we speak, every tea room, restaurant, barber shop and betting place in Chinatown is running with the rumour that there is only one reason why the child has been so elusive.’

  ‘What is that reason?’ Her voice was pale.

  ‘Because the child is your own grandson. And that in order to protect him you are trying to substitute an entirely innocent and unconnected boy in his place.’

  ‘You cannot be serious.’

  ‘Deadly.’

  ‘Oh, Thomas, but I fear you are.’ She was still, breathing deep to calm her racing heart. ‘No one will believe you.’

  ‘But they already do. What’s more natural in Chinese government than a conspiracy and cover-up? Your masters in Beijing all conspire against each other and in their own personal interests. They will think this explanation entirely obvious. Like a cat taking to cream. And thrown in with allegations of corruption throughout the Embassy …’ He held the photograph of her grandson up high, preparing to drop it after the camels.

  ‘No!’ she pleaded, holding out a trembling hand in protest. It was only a photograph, but she couldn’t help herself. In one small, instinctive gesture she had exposed her weakness, the route to her deepest fears, and there was no going back.

  ‘They will kill your boy.’ His words landed with physical impact, slapping across her face and making her head jerk. ‘Even if they are not certain, they will kill him. Just to be on the safe side. For what is one life amongst so many?’ He paused. ‘I understand that is the Chinese way.’

  ‘He is my grandson. Thomas, he is all I have.’ She had stopped fighting and was now battling with herself to retain some semblance of control.

  ‘It is a difficult world.’

  ‘They will kill me too, but that is not what I fear. It is for the boy. For him I would gladly give my life a thousand times over.’

  ‘I think they will ask you only the once.’

  She looked at him through tears. ‘You mock me. That is cruel. Unlike you, Thomas.’

  ‘I see no difference between us. We are only arguing about which child your masters would butcher.’

  ‘Would you, Thomas? Would you willingly sacrifice any child?’

  He held his silence, replacing the photograph carefully upon the mantelpiece and reflecting upon Sun Tzu. He’d been browsing that morning in bed and had found the advice staring up at him. ‘Don’t attack until you have discovered your opponent’s weakness.’ Damned fine Chinaman, that Sun Tzu.

  ‘There may be one way, if you are willing to consider it.’

  ‘How could I not? You have the advantage of me.’

  ‘One thing above all else is clear. The fate of you, your grandson and the Tibetan child are wrapped up together. All three of you will survive, or you will be sacrificed, together.’

  ‘I fear Beijing will be most insistent.’

  ‘Then tell Beijing that the boy cannot be found. That he will never be found because he doesn’t exist. Not here in Britain. Tell them that this has been a Tibetan plot to distract from the search for the real reincarnation. Send them off to look elsewhere.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Does it matter? Try America. That’s big. Or Japan. Enough Oriental faces to send any search party spinning. My Tibetan friends will help with the illusion. We’ll start a new rumour. Even start a new search. And in the meantime you and your grandson can find a little peace.’

  ‘And the other boy?’

  ‘Him, too. He and your grandson need each other. They can live together in the same world, in the same country, perhaps. They should live together, that was the Dalai Lama’s message, I think.’

  A faint expression of hope began to play around her lips. ‘Strangely enough, they both seem to enjoy each other’s company.’ As though to confirm the point, from somewhere deep within the house there came a loud crash, followed by two whoops of mischief. ‘A drum I bought him for his last birthday,’ she explained.

  ‘Then spend the rest of the day thinking what you can buy him for his next.’

  ‘You ask me to betray my country?’

  ‘Or betray your grandson. A simple choice.’

  ‘Oh, we are very much alike, you and I, Thomas.’ There was resentment now.

  ‘We both believe in our family.’

  ‘And we are both ruthless, you as much as I.’

  Ruthless? He didn’t like to see it that way, but perhaps she was right. ‘So what is it to be?’ he pressed. ‘The boy? Or Beijing?’ He didn’t want to allow her time to think, only to feel. And to fear.

  Her eyes flooded in anger. ‘I am a diplomat. That is my life!’

  ‘But you will die a grandmother.’

  Her eyes welled in torment. He had come to understand her all too well, to know the manner in which she could be twisted and tantalized. She was spinning inside. Then something snapped. Her shoulders sagged, her whole body seemed to deflate, to wither in front of his eyes. She could resist no longer. When the words came it seemed as though she had b
arely enough strength to whisper them. ‘You may have the boy …’

  He closed his eyes, offered a prayer.

  The deed was done.

  A few moments later, as he prepared to leave, she called after him. ‘Tell me, Thomas, how is your wife?’

  He stopped, weighing the answer as though it were gold. Or lead. ‘She has made something of a recovery. She’s starting to respond a little. Thanks to your pillow, I believe.’

  ‘I am glad.’

  He was almost at the door when he stopped and turned once more. ‘Tell me, Madame Lin, I’ve always wondered. About your own husband. What happened to him?’

  She paused before replying, weighing the memories with care. ‘It was a long time ago. When I was pregnant. During the purges of the Cultural Revolution. I was a senior party activist and he … Well, he was a licentious fool. An opportunist. I had been at a party meeting. Made a ferocious speech denouncing intellectuals and capitalist roaders. Parasites, leeches, who lived off the rest. Oh, but it was a fine speech, Thomas. Everyone said so. Then great pains began with the child. I came back home early, unexpectedly. I found him in bed with another woman. A whore.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So … I was the party cadre. I had the power. I also had the responsibility. Obligations. I had to decide.’

  ‘What did you decide?’

  ‘He was betraying the revolution.’ She was pleading too forcefully. ‘And he was betraying me.’

  ‘What did you decide?’ he repeated softly.

  ‘I had him shot.’

  He knew the guilt hadn’t left her for a minute of her life.

  ‘Hard times, Thomas.’

  ‘Aren’t they all, Madame Lin?’

  Ten minutes later Goodfellowe was back out in the snow, trying to figure out how to get a two-year-old boy to ride in the basket of his collapsible bike.

  Goodfellowe had been rescued by that rarest of London phenomena, a taxi in a snowstorm. Progress with both boy and bike had proved distinctly hazardous and the appearance of the taxi had gone some way to restoring his belief in miracles. It was with considerable relief that he stowed the bike and clambered in. The boy had already settled himself in the back seat with a confidence that suggested he had been used to being driven around all his life. He smiled, he yawned, he remained remarkably composed considering the ordeal he had just been through, yet he would say not a word. Several times Goodfellowe asked him his name, but got back only a grin in reply. This proved awkward. The taxi driver was beginning to cast glances of concern in the mirror at this strange combination of a seriously dishevelled man and a young boy. Goodfellowe decided that if he persisted in questioning the boy there was more likelihood of the taxi driver heading for the nearest police station than the destination Goodfellowe had asked for, and he didn’t think he was up to the challenge of trying to explain to a distracted police sergeant the difference between a politician and a pervert. Miracles didn’t stretch that far. So he sat back and decided to concentrate on rearranging his appearance, searching for a handkerchief to wipe away the perspiration and the melted snow that had mingled on his forehead. As he did so, the driver gave a grunt of relief.