Snow shook his head again. ‘I’m not sure …’ he began and trailed away.
‘No luggage. No goodbyes,’ insisted Charlie. ‘It’s not a matter for you. Not just your safety. You’re agonizing over the poor bastard they’ve already arrested. What happens to him depends upon their not getting you. My safety, too. Two people, utterly dependent on your doing everything right. OK?’
‘OK.’ It was very uncertain.
‘No deviation! None whatsoever!’
‘I said I understood!’ Now Snow was showing irritation.
Charlie was abruptly very nervous. Apart from Edith, a long time ago, and Natalia, much more recently, there was only one person in the world upon whom Charlie had ever felt able completely to rely. Himself. He’d never really liked operating with other supposed professionals, because invariably something got cocked up somewhere. This time he wasn’t even being forced together with a professional. He was being harnessed with someone he’d already decided was a collapsing liability. ‘Repeat it!’ he ordered. ‘Repeat everything back to me!’
Snow had to make two attempts, to get it right. At the end he said: ‘I’ve got it all clear in my head.’
‘I hope to Christ you have!’ said Charlie, unthinkingly.
‘And I’ll pray to Him,’ promised Snow, quietly.
Miller had not referred to the left-behind perfume after that one confrontation and obviously Patricia hadn’t. She hadn’t asked, either, when or how long Ann might be at Regent’s Park because it would have seemed she was anxious, which she was, but didn’t want to show it. He’d have to ask her to go there again: Patricia was determined that was how it would be. In the beginning, she had made up her mind to refuse the first time, putting up some excuse, but as the days passed her resolve about that lessened and she knew she’d agree, as she always agreed. But he’d still have to ask her: she wouldn’t suggest it.
‘There wasn’t a lot of point in Muffin making all that fuss about going in solo if he was going to approach the embassy as quickly as this, was there?’ demanded the Director.
‘At least we know he’s there. And that there is definite surveillance on the mission.’ Why wouldn’t Peter ask her? She was sure Ann wasn’t there.
‘That’s the most worrying part.’
‘I would have thought the continued refusal over Gower might have been?’
‘Then you’re not thinking clearly enough,’ said Miller, brusquely. ‘It can only mean Gower’s hanging on.’
Patricia’s face burned at the curtness but she chose not to argue against it. ‘What next?’
‘The Chinese ambassador is being told we are considering withdrawing our ambassador, for consultations.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Of course it is!’ said Miller, brusque again. ‘We’re bluffing. We’ve just got to hope the bastards don’t call it.’
Forty-six
The enmity between them had become absolute after the confession, which should have made it easier for Snow to leave the mission without any farewell, but he was reluctant to go like that. Despite no bond ever having grown between them, Snow felt the older priest deserved a warning at least. It was a deceit not to say something, just as it had been a deceit contriving the protective confession. The justification from the man who had come to get him out – his protection is not knowing – did not seem as acceptable in the echoing, dust-clogged church during early morning prayers as it had in the cramped embassy room less than twenty-four hours earlier.
Snow prayed for a long time. He prayed most fervently for forgiveness, for what he now accepted to be the mistakes and the wrongs he had committed. And then for courage, for what he had to do that day. And finally to be allowed to escape, apologizing as he did so for the weakness it showed.
He was aware, while he prayed, of Father Robertson entering and then leaving the church for his own worship. When Snow reached their living quarters there was no sign of the other priest. Snow felt positively sick, so he did not want anything to eat, but he brewed coffee, enough for both of them. Still Father Robertson did not appear. Finally Snow called for the man. There was no response. Snow looked into the empty office and finally knocked tentatively on Father Robertson’s bedroom door, beginning to fear another collapse. When he pushed the door open, the room was empty, the bed tidily made.
Snow accepted, sighing, that the problem of leaving the mission had been resolved for him. Father Robertson wouldn’t think any less of him, when he realized what had happened: it was probably impossible for the man to think any less than he already did. So it would have been a gesture entirely for his own benefit. Unimportant, then. Snow fervently hoped there was protection, in Father Robertson not knowing.
After just a few sips of the coffee the feeling of sickness worsened, so Snow threw the remainder away: the nausea was more discomforting than the tightness in his chest, which really wasn’t too bad at all, not as bad as he’d expected it might be. There was certainly no need at this stage for an inhaler.
With the edited pictures set out on the table before him, Snow wrote to Li as he had been instructed, apologizing for the photographs being incomplete, pausing briefly when he’d finished that letter as the idea came of writing also to Father Robertson. Positively Snow laid the pen aside, rising from the desk. The decision had been made for him, he repeated to himself.
He failed to reach Li by telephone at the Foreign Ministry. The switchboard at once put him on the carousel of Chinese bureaucracy, plugging him through to one department who put him on hold to transfer him to another. On the second connection, Snow was careful to identify himself and leave the required message before the third attempt at a transfer. Before it succeeded, he disconnected.
Snow had looked nostalgically around the church before he’d left it. He did the same now around the mission, and finally in his room there. And then concentrated upon his desk. The passport slipped easily into the inside of his jacket. He put the rosary into an outside pocket, patting it needlessly to ensure it did not bulge. His bible, the well thumbed, much used book his parents had given him the proud day of his graduation, was the only object left in front of the tiny, private altar. It was too big, both in length and width, for any of his pockets. He replaced it on the table, flicking open the cover to read the inscription he knew by heart: the ink in which his mother had written his name was already fading, tinged with brown. He closed it again but did not move from the desk. He wanted to take it. Needed to take it, his most precious possession. Carrying it in his hand would not indicate he was leaving. He was a priest. Priests carried bibles, although not often in proscribed China. But Catholicism was not proscribed: officially it was permitted. Snow picked the bible up again, testing how it looked if he held it upright, in his cupped hand close to his body. He was sure it hardly protruded to be visible at alclass="underline" didn’t appear to be anything more than a wallet if it did show, and a wallet did not mean he was going anywhere.
He would take it, Snow determined.
He was at the door when he remembered the asthma medication. The two inhalers from the bathroom cabinet made a bigger bulge in his pocket than the rosary. Snow was at the door of the mission, about to step out into the street, when the abrupt fear gripped him, so that for a moment he was physically unable to move.
‘Dear God, please help me!’ he said aloud. ‘Help me!’ He forced himself to move, which he did with great difficulty, like someone suffering cramp or paralysis.
The overcast sky seemed to blanket the heat upon the street outside, which was, as usual, jostled with people and bicycles: he couldn’t see the nightsoil-collectors but the stink of their cargo hung in the air. The last time I’ll walk this way, among these people, among these smells, Snow thought: I’m leaving, running. I’ll never see this place again.