Monstrous strength, his other hand rising and thudding against the mattress with the force of an axe as I rolled my head clear and used a splay-hand into his eyes, their resilience against my fingertips as I drove them hard again and again as he jerked his head back but not fast enough, my teeth clamped and his blood running into my mouth until I swallowed and felt the capsule go with it into the safety of the alimentary canal, unbroken, the cyanide unreleased.
I won't have this. A sob came from him because of the pain of his eyes; he was blinded by now because he'd brought me to the edge of death and I'd had to work hard to get clear again, I will not have this do you understand, coming in here and trying to kill me, this is the fifth time you bastards have — his hand tugging to get free of my teeth, his other hand slamming a sword-edge for my throat and reaching it and producing great pain for an instant before I rolled half over and brought my knee into his groin and felt him rock back with his breath hissing, I won't have it, it's too personal, too intimate, you're too fucking impudent to think you can come in here and splodge me out like a fly, it can't be done, I won't have it, but great fear somewhere, too, fear for my life, its stimulus giving me the strength I would not have had without it, and now an end to this, my hand rising for his larynx and connecting easily because he was blind now and couldn't see its shadow in the shadows of the night, rising and driving against the cartilage and breaking it and going deeper as his head and body jack-knifed and their dead weight came down on me and we lay like lovers, where no love ever was.
Sinitsin lit a cigarette.
"That won't be necessary. They won't send a new ambassador now; even the Americans have that much sense."
"But the Chinese Premier," Major Alyev said with a certain deference, "will have to go?"
"Of course. But not by violence."
He was sitting in the only chair, a bamboo tripod with goatskin stretched across it; his two aides were on the long stone bench nearer the radio transceivers; the interpreter was cross-legged on the floor, one foot sticking out at an odd angle and his head in a listening attitude. One of the Korean guards was crouched on his haunches in the big arched entrance, facing away from the room with a submachine gun tucked under his right arm. There might have been other people there but I couldn't be certain: this was as far as I could go along the stone-flagged passage without their seeing me.
The time was 11:54.
There had been a rough blanket in the cell, folded tightly and thrust into a niche in the wall, and I had spread it over the body on the mattress, leaving the head half-exposed; in the faint light it hadn't been possible to see where blood had stained the floor and the mattress; all I could do was increase the chances that if anyone shone a lamp through the oblong in the door they'd believe it was the Englishman lying there asleep.
The element of time was totally unpredictable. If anyone went along the passage to my cell they would see Yang was no longer there on guard, and would try to find him, sounding the alarm when they failed. That could happen within minutes from now, although the cell was at the end of a passage forming a cul-de-sac where only my guards would normally go. The latest deadline was an hour and six minutes from now, when Yang's relief took over the guard and saw he was absent. That would be at 01:00 hours tomorrow.
I stayed where I was for a few minutes longer, hoping to pick up evidence of anyone else's being in the room with the KGB party. Both transceivers were switched on, with their panels glowing; one would be waiting to receive Moscow; the other would be tuned to the Triad or the KGB group holding Tung Chuan. It was tempting to stay here in case a message came through, but time was already running out. Half an hour ago the chances of my taking any kind of action, even to save my own life, had been nil; but now that I was free to move through the monastery the situation was radically changed.
There were eleven men here, all of them armed. This was excluding Tung Kuo-feng. He was the key.
His quarters were at the far end of this passageway and across the courtyard where they'd taken me out and stood me against the wall. I went in that direction now, moving on my bare feet in total silence. Not far from the pagoda there was a small fountain in a basin carved from the solid rock, and I stopped to lean over the water's surface and plunge my face where the moon's reflection lay afloat, opening my mouth and cleansing his blood from it, drinking deeply and slaking my bruised skin with its cooling touch, my body hunched at the basin's rim like a beast at a waterhole, easing the ravages of the hunt before moving on.
There was a guard mounted outside Tung's quarters, the white stripes of his tracksuit showing up against the stones of the building; I could see the blunt shape of the submachine gun slung from his shoulder as he moved into full moonlight towards the parapet that overlooked the mountain slopes, tossing a cigarette-end across the wall and standing there for a moment and then moving on, stalking his own squat shadow, his track shoes making no sound. A patch of light shone from a grilled aperture in the building, catching the hammered brass of a gong against the wall inside. I couldn't see Tung Kuo-feng but he would be there, because the guard was there.
I listened. From the reaches of the slopes an owl gave voice, and I could hear the faint ringing of bells as goats moved; but they were far away. Behind me the small fountain splashed, and I listened to that sound particularly: it was between where I was standing and the distant arches of the monastery where Sinitsin and his aides kept their vigil at the radios. If they were talking, their voices didn't carry this far; I stayed for minutes, because this was important, and as I listened I watched the Korean pacing between the parapet and the lighted aperture; sometimes he looked up at the moon and halted, staring as if he'd only just seen it there; his face was white and shadowless in the flat light, a clown's face.
There was no way of reaching him from where I watched, in the shadow of the stone Buddha. I waited until he turned his back to retrace his steps towards the parapet; then I moved nearer, crossing the open space and risking his turning and seeing me; at this stage risks had to be taken, and they were not small; they had to be taken because Tung was the key.
I waited again, in shadow; when the guard turned and paced back, towards me, I drew fully into cover and watched the edge of his own shadow flowing in rhythmic patterns cross the uneven flagstones as he came nearer. During the time I'd been watching him he hadn't come as far as the corner of the building here, but he might do it now, and if he did there wouldn't be time to reach deeper cover; I'd have to confront him, and there wouldn't be much chance: his hand was near the trigger of that bloody thing and he'd only have to swing it towards me and there'd be nothing I could do.
I watched his shadow as it neared; his movement was no longer soundless; I could hear the soft wincing of his rubber soles and the faint brushing of his legs as the inner seams of the track suit rubbed against each other. He was so close now that I could smell gun-oil. If he came right to the corner here I wouldn't have time to jump him before he put out some shots, and even if he missed me the sound would bring the others.
Wincing of the rubber soles, smell of oil, and the thought that I shouldn't have taken a risk so big so soon, that being suddenly free had made me overconfident: it was a classic syndrome. His shadow came on, and when an owl called from the belltower my scalp shrank and I drew a breath sharply, and then the barrel of the gun swung in a half circle as he turned and his shadow moved away, flowing across the ones obliquely in front of him and becoming smaller. Then I broke cover and stood there watching his back and judging the distance and the terrain and the state of its surface and its acoustic properties and the number of steps it would need for me to take him down at this precise point and in silence without the heavy gun hitting the stones and alerting the other guards; then I moved back into cover because it was no go; the distance and the terrain and the acoustics were all in my favour but I would have to go for him alone and I couldn't do that, because of the moon; I'd have to take my shadow with me and he'd see it before I was close enough and when I jumped him I'd be jumping straight into the gun, no go.