‘What is it?’ demanded Samuels, again.
The smile faded into the familiar irritable scowl. ‘I don’t know what it is. But I know what it’s not. Definitely not infectious.’
Snow said: ‘I want to give an indication to my Order in Rome.’
‘I don’t know,’ repeated Pickering. ‘It could be a virus: maybe we’ll never scientifically know.’
‘What about the seriousness?’ persisted Samuels.
‘He’s an old man and he’s quite frail,’ declared the doctor, unnecessarily. ‘At his age and in his condition, a virus has got to be regarded seriously. But the improvement is quite remarkable in the last few hours: almost dramatically so. Which is encouraging. His temperature is practically normal, and for his age I regard his blood pressure as practically normal, too.’
‘Is there any risk … I mean, could he die?’ stumbled Snow.
‘Good God, no!’ erupted the man, who appeared permanently on the point of exasperation. ‘He’ll need care, certainly. But I don’t think he’s in any danger.’
‘What’s the treatment?’ asked Samuels.
‘Simple antibiotics, as far as I can see. He’s no longer unconscious: this is just a sleep of exhaustion, nothing more.’
‘So we’ll move him to the infirmary,’ declared the diplomat.
‘Why?’ demanded Pickering, querulously.
‘Why not?’ said Samuels, equally forcefully. ‘He’s not infectious. But he needs care. It’s obvious he should be moved where he is closer to you.’
‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t stay here,’ refused Pickering. ‘In fact, it’s far better than trying to move him, which we’d have to do by car, because to wait for days for the Chinese to provide ambulance facilities would be ridiculous …’ He nodded towards Snow. ‘He’s more than capable of doing what’s necessary, which is just seeing the medication is administered at the proper time. And I can make all the daily visits that are necessary …’ Again Snow was indicated with a nod. ‘I can give him my home as well as official number, for when the telephone gets fixed, so he can call me at any time if there’s any relapse. Which I don’t believe there will be.’
‘I think he should be moved,’ said Samuels, doggedly.
‘It’s not your decision to make!’ rejected Pickering. ‘I am responsible here for the medical care of British nationals.’
‘And I am responsible for that and every other care,’ yelled Samuels, in a surprisingly undiplomatic outburst. Striving at once for control Samuels said: ‘I can’t see any reason why Father Robertson can’t be taken somewhere better medically equipped than this place.’
Snow thought the diplomat sounded like someone offering a defence to a later accusation, which perhaps he considered he was. Concerned himself with Father Robertson’s well-being, Snow said to the doctor: ‘Wouldn’t it be better to take him into a hospital?’
‘If I thought it would be I’d do it!’ said Pickering. ‘At the moment this man is medically better here, where …’
The sentence was never finished. Behind the doctor Father Robertson gave a snuffling sigh, shifted uncomfortably and finally opened his eyes, staring without focus for several moments at the cracked and dirt-rimmed ceiling directly above his bed. The blank face and the blank eyes cleared at last. He turned his head sideways and saw them. ‘What?’ he said, in a vague, one-word demand.
It was Pickering who conducted everything, without ever offering Father Robertson an answer to his question. With the elderly priest able at last minimally to communicate sensibly, Pickering took the man through a series of verbal examinations, greatly extending the neurological tests. He expanded the medical in step with Father Robertson’s recovery. Within fifteen minutes the mission head was taking by mouth the antibiotics the doctor produced from his bag. Over his shoulder, generally to both of them, Pickering said: ‘An even greater recovery!’ This time the pride was in the voice, not in a smile.
Samuels and Snow approached the bed together. Father Robertson was fully conscious. Again, repeatedly, he begged their forgiveness for whatever trouble he had caused, at one stage reaching out imploringly, which unintentionally revealed to them both the sticklike fragility of his arms.
‘You feel better?’ pressed Samuels.
‘Tired. That’s all. Just tired. I am so sorry.’
‘I was worried,’ came in Snow.
‘Forgive me. So stupid.’
‘He’ll need rest, for several days,’ bustled Pickering. ‘I will prescribe a mild sedative, to go with the antibiotics. And come every day: as often as I consider necessary …’ The look to Samuels was dismissive. ‘Everything will be done that needs to be done.’
Ignoring the doctor, Samuels said to the sick man: ‘I feel you should come to the embassy: that would be best, wouldn’t it?’
‘I really think …’began the indignant Pickering, behind them, but Father Robertson cut in over the doctor. ‘I really feel much better. It’s here I should be. I will be all right here: quite all right.’
‘Thank God that’s settled!’ declared Pickering. Careless of the small audience, the doctor said to Samuels: ‘I resent your interference.’
Snow didn’t think further examination was necessary, but was instead a gesture physically to relegate Samuels, and guessed from the colour of the diplomat’s face that Samuels thought the same.
Snow listened intently to the doctor’s instructions about the dosages and medication and accepted the offered telephone numbers, making a mental note to check whether the already reported fault had been corrected.
Throughout there was no conversation between the doctor and the diplomat. Both men remained unspeaking when they left the mission.
The sedative had taken effect and Father Robertson slept for another three hours before stirring again. He was heavy-eyed.
‘I’m getting old,’ he said, sadly.
‘You’ll be fine,’ assured Snow.
‘Did I cause much trouble?’
‘Nothing,’ dismissed Snow.
Father Robertson’s eyes began to close. ‘Old,’ he said, indistinctly.
‘So this is a farewell feast!’ Marcia had been for more than a week at an exhibition in Birmingham, so they’d only talked by telephone of his going to Beijing.
‘Hardly farewell,’ said Gower, smiling across the restaurant table. ‘I’ve yet to get a visa.’
‘And I thought you were just some lowly clerk: would be for years!’
‘I was surprised, too,’ admitted Gower. He accepted that formalities had to be completed – visas particularly – but he was impatient at the delay. He had expected to leave practically at once after the promised final briefing: every day that passed surely increased the danger if their source had been exposed.
‘How long will you be away?’
‘It’s an on-the-spot survey of embassy facilities,’ said Gower. ‘I shan’t really know until I get there.’
‘It’s odd they have to send someone from London.’
‘They seem to think it’s necessary.’
The girl offered her glass, for more wine. With innocent prescience, she said: ‘This could be a big chance for you, though, couldn’t it?’
‘If I get everything right.’ I hope, thought Gower.
Marcia looked away, nodding agreement for the waiter to clear her plate. When the man left, she said: ‘It’s worked well, these last few weeks, hasn’t it? You and me, I mean.’