‘Elyashar Mehmeduli, the hospital taskmaster. Elyashar, this is Dr Ruzi Osmanop, from Alma-Ata. He’s come to look at some of our work on the antidepressant properties of Hypericum.’
They shook hands, then Elyashar turned back to Nabila.
‘Your message is probably still waiting on my desk. There’s been a bit of a panic on for the past few hours.’
‘So I can see. What’s up?’
Elyashar realized they were trying to make themselves heard over an impossible din.
‘The paediatric records office is just down here,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go there?’
Squeezing past a group of patients dressed in thin towelling robes - lime green, pink, powder blue, and white - they found a door bearing the one word "Records".
Inside, it was stifling hot, but mercifully quiet. In front of them stood a long desk, and behind it row upon row of steel filing cabinets.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Nabila again, the moment the door was closed.
‘You mean, you don’t know?’ Elyashar looked genuinely surprised.
‘I told you, we were out at Karakul. That’s where we got these plants - which will have to be put in the refrigerator soon if we want to keep them.’
‘Sorry, I forgot. Everything’s in such a muddle. Look, the authorities announced fresh restrictions just before twelve o’clock, three ...‘ He glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, three hours ago. There’s to be a curfew in Kashgar from eight o’clock tonight. What’s worse, no one’s to go out of the city. After seven, nobody gets in either.’
‘What? No one?’
Elyashar nodded glumly.
That’s not all. The airport’s been closed until further notice. All travel south of the Taklamakan has been banned. Any foreigners in Kashgar or any of the oasis towns to the east have to travel direct to Urumchi tonight.’
‘Why all this panic in the hospital?’ asked David.
‘That all started about an hour ago. We’re trying to cool it down. A rumour got out that there was going to be a repeat of the massacre in Urumchi. Somebody said Colonel Chang was in charge of the operation. Somebody else said there’d been wind of an insurrection.’
‘How would that affect the hospital?’ Nabila asked.
‘After the shootings in Urumchi, the hospitals were filled up. A lot of the ordinary patients were thrown out to make room for the injured.’
‘I didn’t know there were any survivors,’ said David.
‘My sources say there were. Not many, but enough to cause chaos for a while. Of course, if it happened here, this isn’t the hospital they’d head for. They’d use the People’s Hospital up the road. But try telling that to this lot.’
‘This insurrection business,’ Nabila butted in. ‘How reliable is that?’ Elyashar shrugged.
‘I thought you’d know that better than me, Nabila. If there’s going to be one, your father’s likely to be at the head of it.’
‘Don’t go saying things like that too loudly, Elyashar. It’s dangerous talk. But I’ll have a word with my father, see what he knows.’
They passed into the corridor again, and were again confronted with a gaggle of anxious patients. Elyashar hurried off to the meeting he was due to attend.
‘Let’s dump these in the dispensary quickly,’ Nabila said, ‘then let’s clear out of here.’
The plants were taken off to a refrigerated vault somewhere. Just as the assistant was about to take them away, Nabila leaned over and took something from the nearest basket. It was the Snow Lotus.
‘I think I’ll hold on to this,’ she said, glancing shyly at David. She slipped the lotus into a pocket, then turned to another assistant, and ordered a bottle made up from herbal decoctions.
‘Here,’ she said when it was ready. ‘This is for you.’
‘But it tastes awful.’
‘You’ve been out in the country today. How many times have you sneezed?’
‘Three, I think, but ...'
‘How many times do you normally sneeze?’
‘More than that, I suppose. I don’t mind sneezing, really. This stuff is absolutely foul.’ All thought of miracles had vanished when brought face to face with the medicine bottle.
The assistants had all gone to the back to unpack the plants.
‘David, you may be big, you may be virile, you may have the looks of Adonis and the organ of a stallion, but underneath you’re just a little boy.’
‘All men are little boys at heart. It’s no reason to criticize them.’
‘You can’t protect me as long as you’re a little boy. You can’t love me as long as you’re a little boy. What’s more, until you start taking your medicine every day, you can forget about my gorgeous female body and its myriad delights.’
He smiled and swallowed the draught, and they started to leave. Then David turned back to her.
‘Nabila, is there anything that might help Maddie? - Some herb, some root?’
Nabila frowned.
‘From what you’ve told me, it isn’t that easy. I’d really need to see her, take her pulses, and so on. But we can talk about her case, and I’ll do my best to prescribe something.’
Nabila wanted to find a pony cart and go straight to her father’s house. Elyashar had been right: if anyone knew about a threatened uprising, it would be Sheikh Azad.
They headed down to the Chini Bagh, where cart drivers often collected. A couple were parked near the entrance. Further along, a large Pakistani bus was being loaded. The passengers, mostly Pakistani men who’d been staying in the hotel, were standing around, sending luggage up to the roof rack, eating kebabs, or just idling until the journey started. They didn’t seem in the least concerned at being sent out of Kashgar so arbitrarily.
A few yards away stood another group intending to board the bus. Five men and four women, all Western backpackers who had, presumably, been travelling the Silk Road. Kashgar was a famous spot to hang out.
David went up close and overheard some Australian accents. Then, out of the blue, a young man spoke in a broad Scottish accent, saying they might all be faster hiring some donkey carts.
The idea came into David’s head ready formed. Something about the closure of Kashgar had made him feel fenced in. The letter for Maddie was still in his pocket. He couldn’t send it from anywhere in Sinkiang. But what if ...?
‘Can I please have a word with you?’ he asked the Scot. He spoke in English, but with an accent straight out of the bazaars of Central Asia.
‘Fuck off,’ said the backpacker.
‘Please - I like to ask you something.’
‘Ah’ve changed all the money Ah need. So fuck on off.’
David wanted to hit him, but thought better of it and merely shook his head.
‘Not change money,’ he said. ‘Pay you money.’
The Scotsman looked him up and down with thinly disguised disgust.
‘If you’re talkin’ aboot what Ah think you’re talkin’ aboot, ye can gae fuck yoursel’ twice, ye wee shite.’
The temptation to knock the youth insensate grew hard to resist. The unnamed Scottish rover looked as though he’d been on the road a long time and collected most of it on himself. He also seemed to have spent a long time with camels of the smelliest variety. A sweet nature would have compensated a lot.
David was about to try again when Nabila appeared from the side.
‘Having trouble, Ruzi?’
‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Our friend here.’
‘Ah’m no’ havin’ trouble, missis, but yir boyfrien’ here’s in big trouble if he disnae fuck on off.’
Nabila stepped up to the traveller and stared him straight in the eyes. Then, whipping one hand between his legs, she grabbed his balls in a potentially agonizing grip.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘if you don’t want me to squeeze these to a pulp. He does not want to fuck you, believe me; he does not want to sell you drugs or change your money. All he wants is to pay you to do him a small favour. Now,
go over there and talk to him about it politely.’
‘And if Ah don’t?’ The threat to his testicles notwithstanding, the stout representative of Scottish manhood was unwilling to shift his ground.
‘Let me tell you,’ Nabila went on. ‘The bus will leave with all your things on board. You will stay behind. You will never leave Kashgar. Believe me, that is the truth.’
Something in her voice, something in her face made a light come on in his eyes.
‘Aye, maybe so, likes. All right. If you’d kindly take yir han’ off ma privates. Thank you. Not that Ah havnae enjoyed the wee stroke tremendously.’
He looked round with a surly expression at David and nodded towards an empty area near the hotel entrance. Further down, armed soldiers were observing the loading of the Pakistan-bound bus.
‘Where you going now?’ asked David.
‘Where the fuck d’ye think? Karachi. You want tae come along? Is that it? Is that the wee favour?’
David shook his head.
‘I stay here. But I have letter I like posted. You stay in Karachi?’
The Scot shook his head.
‘Fuck Karachi. Ye cannae even find decent booze. Ah’ve been on the road too bloody long anyway. It’s all fucked, ken. India’s fucked, China’s fucked. Even the hash is crap. Ah’m takin’ the first plane oot tae London. Then it’s straight up the M1 for me.’
David’s eyes lit up.
‘Take this,’ he said, shoving a substantial bundle of Renminbi in the Scot’s direction. An initial reluctance to take Chinese currency was checked as he noticed just how much there was. Even at an unfavourable rate, he’d still come out on top.
‘A letter, eh?’
‘In London. First-class stamp. You have to buy that yourself.’
‘How d’ye know Ah willnae dump the whole thing oot the windae?’
‘You will lose more money.’
David held out the letter, which was still unsealed, and took a pen from his pocket. ‘Fifty pounds for you if you see it posted or delivered. If you give me name and address
For a moment the dusty Scot looked at David as though he’d just been thumped. Finally it sank in. So many Renminbi now, so many pounds on safe arrival of the letter. He dictated his name, Calum Kilbride, and an address in Edinburgh, and saw them written down and sealed into the envelope.
There was a shout from the bus. The passengers had started to climb on board. Five o’clock wasn’t far off.
David handed the letter over.
‘It is important,’ he said. ‘For somebody important.’
‘Ah make no promises, but Ah’ll do ma best.’
David watched him go, and for some reason he believed him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
London
He walked back through discontented streets, lulled by the sound of so many human voices in a stir. London pleased and tormented him. It had such a range of vices to offer the lonely and the unsure, and sometimes the thought that so much was available here worked in his veins like a drug. He’d tried almost everything at one time or another, from sex to gambling to mind-altering substances. Tonight he wanted something more, something out of the ordinary.
He headed down to Chinatown, round Gerrard Street. The restaurants were still clattering and chattering away, each one filled with its gaggle of tourists and a sprinkling of London Chinese. He was not known here, and he enjoyed just walking about, catching snatches of rapidly spoken Mandarin or Cantonese, half-pretending to himself he was back in Shanghai or Peking.
He cut off down a back lane, and from it to another, until he was deep inside a little maze running between back doors and kitchen windows. Huge bins stood everywhere, waiting to be filled and picked up later in the morning by trucks. A grey cat scampered away, surprised with its head inside a rubbish bin.
The door was on his right, where he remembered it: a black door without number or name. He rang a bell up high by the lintel and waited. Minutes passed. He knew they had a camera, very well concealed. They were checking him, then the alley.
A man’s voice came from a hidden grille.
‘Shei?’
He gave his name.
‘Wait there.’
Another minute.
The door opened and a small Chinese woman dressed in black beamed at him.
‘Fah-la Shiansheng, ni hai huozhe?'
He laughed and bent to kiss her on both cheeks.
‘Yes, still alive. Has it been that long?’
‘Not so long. But when you not get in touch, old friends ...'
‘I’m sorry, I’ve been terribly busy.’
‘No excuse. Come inside, can’t leave door open.’
He followed along a short corridor, then up a steep flight of steps. It was so familiar, he could have taken every step blindfolded. If he remembered rightly, that’s what they had done to him the first time. Later, they’d discovered who he was, and that he’d let them stay in business. From then on he could have entered almost any room on the premises. He paid well, too, better than most of their clients. It guaranteed him the best of everything. After all, as he often said, what was the point of coming to a place like this if you couldn’t have the best?
‘Is anyone else using the place tonight?’ he asked. He knew there were others, of course. But it was polite to ask.
‘You not worry, Mista Fah-la. All taken care of. You got place to you self.’
He knew what that meant. Whoever else was here would be hurried along. There was time. There were enough rooms.
‘Have you anything special for me, Zhou Furen?’ Her mouth opened, exposing rows of diamond-capped teeth. She’d make an expensive corpse, thought Farrar. Or a toothless one.
‘She come yesterday, Mista Fah-la. You never see one so beautiful. Take you breath away.’
‘You always say that, Madame Zhou.’ She looked at him quickly, almost sternly.
‘No,’ she said, and her voice was no longer bantering. ‘This one make you want to live for ever. Or maybe die.’
‘What age?’
‘Not so old. Sixteen, maybe. Little breasts like small minzu gua.’
‘Still a virgin?’
‘Of course. We make sure of that.’
‘And properly trained?’
‘As much as you could wish, Fah-la Shiansheng.’ Her girls were trained from about the age of eight in music, poetry, the I Ching, deportment, conversation, and other elementary arts. At the age of sixteen, the most attractive were taken to the house in Guangzhou for four months, during which time they were introduced to a wide range of sexual and sensory experiences. They learned every possible way to pleasure a man short of intercourse - for it was vital that they remain virgins until they met their first clients - and how to receive pleasure in the same way.
‘Then let me see her. I warn you, I’m very tense tonight. My mind is wandering. My thoughts are in China. I can’t rest. I need something to restore my serenity. Do you understand? I won’t have her if she isn’t as you say. I’ll settle for something else. Don’t promise me perfection if you can’t provide it.’
She smiled.
‘Believe me,’ she said. She spoke in Chinese now, knowing he would follow suit, knowing it would be easier for the girl, who spoke no English. ‘Believe me.’
He followed her down a corridor to more stairs, and climbed with her to the next floor. He’d been here before, perhaps nineteen times in his life. It wasn’t very often when you came to think about it. But that did not matter. The Hui Hou did not much like their clients to come more often than that. A single day in one of their lotus houses was meant to resonate in a man’s memory for months, even years afterwards. If all a man wanted was simple satiation of the flesh, he would generally be directed to one of their blue houses, the well-known hong fangzi. These latter were brothels of good quality, no more. For many men, they were all that was required. The girls were attractive and well looked after, the surroundings comfortable.
The lotus houses
, on the other hand, were not brothels. There were seven of them, one each in Hong Kong, Tokyo, Paris, London, Cairo, New York, and Los Angeles. Clients were known to fly thousands of miles to their nearest house. Entry was by invitation only. The lotus houses appeared in no handbooks or directories. The cost alone meant that they were open to only a very small elite. But not even money could guarantee entry. Large numbers of extremely wealthy men had been turned down. One or two had tried to use muscle to get in: each had been found strangled the next morning. The Hui Hou brooked no form of defiance.
Anthony Farrar had always paid in coin and in kind. His protection had saved the London house from discovery and closure many times. And more than once he’d alerted the Hui Hou to threats to their trade routes. Getting the girls out of China was their biggest headache.
Coming to the second floor always took his breath away. It was not just that it was luxurious. He could have found that in any top-grade hotel. But this was harmonious. The rooms and their contents had been laid out according to the rules of Feng Shui, with one aim in mind: to produce inner peace, harmony, and refinement of the senses.
Madame Zhou showed him to a small antechamber. ‘Wait here,’ she said. 'I have to make the rooms ready. Master Lu will be with you presently.’
She went out, bowing low, as she had been trained to do sixty years ago. He was left behind in silence. With a deep sigh, he sat down on a low lacquered stool. Alone, he felt the pressure fall on him like an axe. He slumped on the stool, head in hands, sunk in a confusion of dark thoughts. The meeting with Royle had depressed him. He knew David Laing in many ways better than he knew Elizabeth. David was the smartest field agent ever to set foot in western China. He was dangerous, and he could turn the Karakhoto scheme upside down if he was allowed to.
He felt drained. It was at such times that he came here, in search of replenishment. But tonight, for the first time, he could not be sure of being brought back to life. He was too grey, too tired, under too much pressure.
The room had eight walls, a perfect octagon. It had been painted black and furnished with the utmost simplicity. He got up and went to the wall behind him. It opened to reveal a small wardrobe. He removed his clothes and folded them carefully on boards from which they would later be taken to be cleaned and pressed.
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