Eventually Zhu gave a brief nod and Chen released his grip on the old monk who crumpled in a heap on the ground.
‘Thank you for enlightening us,’ Zhu said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He then moved closer, whispering into René’s ear, ‘Interfere again and I will have one of the soldiers break your legs.’
René stared at the ground as Zhu flicked away his cigarette and without another word, continued up the trail towards the village. The other soldiers hoisted their packs and followed, leaving René standing next to Chen.
‘Must have been scary, huh?’
Chen turned, surprised to hear the Westerner speak to him.
‘A pacifist the same age as my grandmother. And all you’ve got is a machine gun.’
As he spoke, René looked directly into Chen’s eyes and for the briefest moment, thought he saw a trace of doubt there. He opened his mouth to say something more but Chen grabbed his shoulder, swivelling him round so he faced the village once more.
‘Back in line,’ he said in broken English, pushing René forward.
Ahead of them Zhu walked on, finally coming to a halt in the central part of the village. His eyes ranged over a few of the villagers lying emaciated and sick in their doorways, unmoved even by the sight of a Chinese patrol.
A stream of water trickled past each house, wending its way around piles of rubbish that had been left to putrify in the mud. Bottles, old bits of rope and plastic bags were scattered over the ground. A few goats and a dog sniffed through the rubbish in front of one of the larger houses. The dog was bone-thin, its ribs visible through its matted coat as it chewed on the end of a splintered bone. As Zhu watched, the dog’s jaw widened and it retched. It sniffed a couple of times, then started eating its own vomit.
Zhu approached one of the piles of rubbish, his boots squelching in the soft mud by the stream. He moved slowly, eyes scanning the ground. From his years of experience at the PSB, it was something he did automatically. Rubbish was the one thing everyone forgot to hide. A hundred yards further up he stopped, eyes settling on a small, plastic bottle partially concealed in the dirt. With the tip of his boot, he carefully flipped over the object and peered down at the writing. It was in English — an empty bottle of painkillers.
The Westerners had been here after all.
Zhu allowed himself a brief smile. Along the last stretch of the trail, he had started to worry that they had broken off earlier and headed up the mountains. The sheer walls of rock looked impassable to him, but then again, he didn’t pretend to be any kind of mountaineer. But this village was the end of the trail. They must have started climbing from here.
Pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket, Zhu dabbed his forehead. The sun was directly above them now, its glare intensified by the rarefied mountain air. Moving back a few paces towards one of the larger wooden shacks, he stood under its eaves by the front door, his eyes gradually adjusting to the shadow.
A moment later he saw Chen approaching, striding across the open ground.
‘Your orders, sir?
‘Set up camp in the lower fields away from this place,’ he said, eyes taking in the rest of the houses where a few of the villagers sat languidly on the steps. ‘The Westerners were here and somebody saw something. Line up the women by the stream for questioning. And, Lieutenant, don’t stop until you find out exactly what they know.’
‘Yes, sir. And the rest of the village?’
Zhu paused for a moment in thought, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. He was about to speak when he felt something behind him brush against his right hand. He flinched, spinning round on his heel in alarm.
Lying on the wooden doorstep of the house was a small boy in an oversized shirt that was bleached by dirt and age. He had been tucked behind a decrepit bench by the door and Zhu hadn’t even noticed him when he had first come in under the shade. While they had been speaking, he had crawled forward and stretched up to touch the nail-less fingers of Zhu’s right hand in an effort to get his attention. The boy looked up at him with pleading eyes, his scrawny body ravaged by cholera.
‘Help us,’ he breathed, his chest working up and down from the effort, making his collar bones stand out under his sunken skin. From the look on his face, it was all too obvious what he was saying. Zhu didn’t need a translation.
Zhu stared down at him, frozen by the physical contact. His eyes ran over the boy’s small hands, dirtied and grasping as they pulled on his fingers once again, touching the stretched skin on the tips where his nails had once been.
Wrenching his arm free, Zhu strode back into the harsh sunlight, his lips curled in revulsion. He frantically wiped his right hand on the side of his trousers, retreating from the child another pace.
‘Burn the village,’ he hissed, wiping his hand one last time and placing it deep in his trouser pocket. He looked across at Chen who stood bewildered by the front step of the house.
‘Burn it to the ground.’
Chapter 36
Luca opened his eyes to see the afternoon sun slanting through the open window. For a moment he lay flat on the narrow bunk, staring out vacantly across the small, bare room. Then he exhaled slowly and dragged himself to his feet. Every muscle in his body felt stretched and bruised and there was a dull thumping in his head.
Moving over to a porcelain bowl by the bed, he wet a small cloth and ran it over his face and hands. The palms of his hands were still stained black with dried blood. By the time he wrung out the cloth, the water had turned the colour of rust.
Last night’s ordeal was coming back to him in flashes now: Bill’s piercing scream by the cave, the burning sensation in his own arms and legs as he’d clambered after Shara. It had taken every ounce of his strength to get them to the monastery, and despite what he sensed must have been a long, deep sleep, he still felt weak and depleted.
Leaving the cloth by the basin, Luca stepped up to the window and took in the view. The monastery seemed just as unreal in the daylight. As he peered straight down from the ledge he saw that the building stretched away beneath him, level after level, to the mountain’s base. It looked to be at least two hundred metres high, as if two large cathedrals had been stacked one on top of the other.
On the horizon was a series of interlocking valleys. Each had layers of green terraced fields running round the side of the mountains in narrow bands, like the contours on a map. Luca could just make out the silhouettes of people, planting long rows of crops, their backs hunched as they worked the earth.
‘Geltang Monastery.’ Luca said the words out loud, as if they would make more sense that way. What was this place? A secret sect of monks, hidden away in the mountains? But if so, what were they all doing here, and how had Shara known about them in the first place?
A knock on the door made him swing round in surprise, causing his back to spasm. Reaching behind him to lean on the bed, he was still cursing softly as the door was unbolted from the outside.
From the shadows of the corridor, a monk appeared in the doorway.
‘Tashi delek, Mr Matthews. I trust you have slept well?’
The man must have been somewhere between forty and fifty, but it was hard to tell given the perfectly smooth texture of his skin. His head was shaved in the traditional monastic style above gently upward-slanting eyes, and he wore the same cornflower blue robes as Luca had seen on the monks who had taken Bill away. The man extended a hand in greeting, his lips curving into a faint smile.
‘My name is Dorje,’ he said, his voice gentle and deliberate. ‘I am one of the few at Geltang who speak English, and have been instructed to be your guide.’