Quiller Bamboo

'Yao wo qu jao ta ma?'

No, coloured lights not drifting anywhere, it was when I'd turned my head; the lights weren't moving.

'Shi.'

The huge gold man sat very still. I'd seen one as big as this before, in the monastery. They were all over the place, all sizes.

'Water.'

I heard sandals scuffing across the floor, opened my eyes again — the lids had closed without my knowing it — saw the head and shoulders of a man going through a doorway, I must be lying on my back.

'Here.'

A face near me, creased into fine lines, a dark mole on the temple just above the eye, reflections throwing light across it, reflections from the glass of water.

A stray thought, quick as a spark — he'd known I would be thirsty: the water had been here. He wasn't the man who'd gone through the arched doorway.

'Thank you.'

'Drink.'

Yes, thirsty.

'Where's the dog?'

He frowned, shaking his head, tugging his robes tighter around his thin body. Perhaps he didn't know about the dog, the dirty white one with the brown patch.

'Feel pain?'

'What? No.' I finished the water and he took the glass away, putting it down on something hard, perhaps marble: this was a temple, and the coloured light came from a window high in the arched roof.

No pain, but felt heavy, weighed down, when I moved, when I tried to sit up, couldn't manage it.

Someone was coming.

Tried again to sit up and the big man came across the room and got me gently by the arms and gave a heave- 'Let me help you, my dear fellow.'

White teeth in a thick black beard, dark intelligent eyes, couldn't think of his name for the moment, things a bit hazy still, sitting on the ledge now, a kind of plinth where they'd kept altar bowls and prayer wheels, they'd been moved onto the floor to make room for the blankets, for me, this was a temple, got it now, Trotter, yes.

'Oh,' I said, 'hello.'

'This is Dr Chen.' Trotter turned to him. 'What do you think, Doctor?'

'He is all right soon. Is the altitude sickness, that is all.'

'There you are,' Trotter said, 'nothing to worry about, rest up a bit, right as rain.' He looked around and brought a teakwood stool over and sat on it facing me. 'But tell me how you feel.'

Tone hearty, voice coming from a barrel. I'd noticed how strong he'd felt when he pulled me upright, formidably strong.

'I feel,' I said, 'like anyone else would feel when someone's drugged his fucking tea.'

I'd meant to follow them to their base so that I'd know where it was, but this place could be anywhere; there were a thousand temples like this one all over Lhasa.

Trotter said, 'Sorry about that, yes.' His tone had changed, dropping the false bonhomie. 'Time was of the essence, you understand. I needed you here.'

The coloured light was fading now; dusk would soon be down. I'd been out cold for five or six hours: we were running it terribly close. All I could hear were distant sounds, some dogs fighting, the chanting of monks, the rumble of a cart, prayer bells, no modern traffic, no trucks. This temple was on the outskirts of town.

'I see.' I tilted forward and got onto my feet, nearly fell but he caught me, used some kind of cologne. We stood like that for a bit, dancing in a sinister way, sinister because this man was so strong and even if I'd been in good condition I wasn't sure I could have reached his nerves before he threw me against the wall.

'Take it easy,' he said, and when he thought I could stand on my own he took his hands away. 'Doing rather well.'

Stray shred of incoming data: he wanted me on my feet, not sitting down anymore.

'Thank you,' I said. Jumping to conclusions could be misleading, possibly dangerous. He'd probably killed Bian, the monk, or had him killed, but that didn't make him a barbarian, in this trade. If I got a chance of playing him I might do well to play him like an English gentleman, in deep with some kind of spook faction; he didn't seem deranged but he could be neurotic, psychotic, a latter-day Philby, and he was certainly running a professional cell.

'Want to walk about?' he asked me.

'Yes.'

Took a few steps, felt the motor nerves stirring, the balance mechanism making frantic adjustments and then getting it right until I could walk from one wall to the other, looking at my watch when I turned, didn't want him to know how very important it was that I should get it all back, a clear head and usable muscles, reasonable strength, enough to overwhelm if I could be quick and get in there for the major paralysis strikes. Dr Chen wouldn't give me any trouble unless he had a gun under his robes and I didn't think so, he looked so very old, so very wise, could be perfectly genuine, a doctor turned monk or a monk turned doctor, his services available to anyone in need of them, to a man like Trotter, who would be generous, pay him well. But I didn't count on it; those people running China were old, too, and murderous.

A lot of thinking to do but I'd got one thing now: it didn't make any difference to Trotter whether I could walk from one wall to the other; he wanted my head clear, because he'd brought me here to talk, so we needed to get the circulation going again, get blood to the brain and the liver, deal with the lingering effects of the drug.

That was all right: I wanted my head clear too and it was no good making out I was still groggy, there wasn't time.

'The military,' I said, 'have they been here?'

'Yes. They searched the place late yesterday. They won't disturb us.'

I kept walking, throwing in the odd word or two when I was facing him because I had to see his reactions if he let any get through. 'Were you in Bombay?'

'Yes. I hate to seem uncivil, but I need answers from you, not the other way round.'

Facing him — 'Did you kill Sojourner?'

No reaction.

'Did you have that snake put in his bed?'

'Of course not. That was the work of a jealous lover.'

'But you got him out of hospital, sucked his brains dry, killed him, had him killed?'

With studied patience, 'As I have said, the questions are for me to ask, not for you. But first of all there are a few things you need to be told. It will help us both.' I heard Dr Chen moving behind me but not with any stealth: his sandals flapped. A spark came into each of Trotter's eyes as a lamp was lit. 'The operation I am running is precisely similar to yours, Mr Locke. My avowed intention is to get Dr Xingyu Baibing out of Lhasa and into Beijing, so that he can go in front of the cameras at eighteen hundred hours tomorrow. We-'

'You've got him here?'

'Yes. He's perfectly well, and we're giving him his injections as prescribed.'

'You killed the monk? Had him killed?'

I just wanted to know his style.

'It was an accident, I'm afraid. Those were not my instructions. There was a struggle.' He shrugged. 'These things happen when there is a great deal at stake, but believe me, I feel about him — he was nothing more than a holy man doing what he believed was right. Exercise a little, if you want to. Just a little — don't overdo it.'

I swung my arms, up on the toes and down again. When I'd looked at my watch a few minutes ago it had been 5:46. Eleven minutes, now, give or take forty-five seconds. I began worrying, because I wanted to know things from this man, everything I could, before we were interrupted. And I wanted my strength back, as much of it as possible.

'You also need to know,' Trotter said, 'that I have not only been keeping pace with your operation, but protecting it.'

Keeping pace since Bombay, since he'd had Sojourner worked over, since Bamboo had been blown, oh Jesus, long before we knew it, the shadow executive, his director in the field and London Control, let them put that on the signals board.