The Cloud Maker (2010) (31 page)

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Authors: Patrick Woodhead

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BOOK: The Cloud Maker (2010)
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Each morning the routine was always the same. While two pairs of soldiers scouted in each direction along the cliffs, the others usually left before dawn and set up target practice in one of the fields below the village. René would lie in his sleeping bag, listening to the crack of their QBZ-95 rifles echo across the valley, the sound muted by the damp heather. They would come back a few hours later, tossing the splintered wooden targets on the fire, each one with a fist-sized chunk blown out of the centre by the tight grouping of 5.56mm rounds.
The only other person who stayed in camp was Chen, but he seemed to spend the majority of his time inside his tent, fly-sheet zipped shut, tapping away on a Panasonic Toughbook CF-30 laptop. The computer was lightweight with a magnesium alloy cover and a waterproof screen – standard issue for the elite patrols in the field. Chen had it hooked up to an Inmarsat BGAN system, folding open the halves of the satellite dish like an upended briefcase on a rock by his tent. Above the dish, a long string of solar panels dangled from the top of his tent, the sheets of dull blue silicon absorbing what little energy there was from the clouded sky. Occasionally, Chen’s broad face would emerge and he would minutely adjust the solar panels to better catch the sun before sinking back inside his tent for the remainder of the afternoon.
This often left René and Zhu alone by the fire, and despite the open space René still felt flashes of the same claustrophobia he had suffered in the police cell. But this morning was different. He could tell by Zhu’s stride that he wasn’t prepared to wait any longer. Something was about to give.
The captain arrived by the fire, his eyes as black and lifeless as a shark.
‘They were never heading for the Indian border, were they?’
René looked up in surprise.
‘What? No, I never said they were. They were heading back to Makalu to do some climbing.’
‘So why stop here? Why
didn’t
they head towards Makalu?’
The pitch of Zhu’s voice had risen alarmingly.
‘Look, I know as much as you do,’ René said defensively. ‘They told the yak herders to come this way instead and Menkom’s the last place they were seen. That’s all I know.’
As he said the village’s name, René’s eyes instinctively switched up the valley towards the blackened houses on the far ridge. Husks were all that remained; broken beams, twisted and collapsed, black from ash. They had seen smoke rising from them for three days now, while the villagers limped their way back along the path to find what shelter they could in the lower fields.
‘That’s all I know,’ he repeated, pouring some boiling water into his cup and trying to avoid eye contact.
‘We’ll see,’ Zhu said quietly. ‘We’ll see how much you really know.’
Over René’s shoulder, Zhu noticed two soldiers making their way back along the cliff edge from their patrol. As they came closer, he recognised the sergeant from the SOF group and Xie, that idiot private they had brought with them from Lhasa.
‘If you don’t provide us with answers then all you are is dead weight,’ Zhu continued, his eyes running over René’s bulbous stomach. ‘And I have no use for dead weight. It gets cut away.’
The word ‘cut’ came out in a hiss. As Zhu signalled to the soldiers, René’s mind started reeling with fear. What did he mean, ‘cut away’? He felt his mouth go dry as the soldiers started hurrying towards them. He had seen enough already to realise that Captain Zhu had neither morals nor conscience. Ever since Zhu had first walked into his restaurant, René had been living with the terrifying realisation that this man could do whatever he wanted to him and nobody on earth would be able to stop him.
Zhu gave a few curt orders in Mandarin and without warning the two soldiers rushed towards René, grabbing him by the front of his woollen jumper. Xie was first, his ruddy cheeks and square neck only inches from his face, but René’s eyes were immediately drawn past him to the shoulder strap of the sergeant’s rucksack. Taped across the webbing, he could see the outline of a large survival knife, its metal handle faded and scratched from use. Each soldier had one and despite only being able to see an impression of the blade through the sheath, he knew enough about the sergeant to bet that it was razor-sharp.
René felt his stomach clench tight.
‘You have until tomorrow morning to find out where they went,’ he heard Zhu say from behind him. ‘After that, you are of no further use to me.’
Xie shunted René forward so that he stumbled, tripping over one of the guy ropes. A moment later he was dragged out of the camp towards the long line of the cliff edge.
Zhu ignored the Westerner’s shouts, his mind already elsewhere. Time was ticking away and he still had no results. One month. That’s what he had said to the Director General of the PSB. One month. Yet that time was already nearly up and he knew that Beijing would be waiting impatiently for his next report.
There was a rustling of fabric and Chen’s massive frame slowly unfolded itself from his tent. Reaching back inside, he grabbed his laptop, disconnecting one of the wires as he pulled it out into the open.
‘Sir, I have found something that might be of interest.’
Zhu’s eyes turned towards him.
‘I’ve just downloaded a new email that concerns a report from Cambridge, England.’
Zhu remained silent, an air of hostility surrounding his entire body. Chen cleared his throat, looking back to the computer screen as if for support.
‘The report was from four weeks ago but I am afraid I hadn’t seen it as my security clearance was temporarily revoked . . . after the incident . . . with the boy.’
Zhu waited, his patience straining.
‘I have been going back through all my files and found that the report concerns one of the men we are looking for – Luca Matthews. He purportedly spoke to an old informant about something called a
beyul
. The report was filed by a . . .’ he paused, double-checking the screen ‘. . . a Professor Tang.’
Zhu stared at him, his eyes suddenly alive.
‘Read the report again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He read the brief in full, including dates and times.
‘I’ve checked twice, sir, and couldn’t find any reference to the word
beyul
in any of our files.’
‘That’s because it’s classified,’ Zhu snapped distractedly. He turned back towards the cliff, feeling a sudden surge of excitement. He’d been right all along. There
was
something up there – but could it really be one of the fabled
beyuls
? Surely the last of them had been destroyed over thirty years ago? The Cultural Revolution had put paid to all that. They’d combed every river gorge, every mountain summit.
Could there really be any left?
‘Get Beijing on the line immediately. I want full satellite imagery for everything above this cliff-face. Get them to divert a satellite if necessary. And I want full-spectrum coverage to cut straight through this cloud.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Lieutenant, ensure that no one in the bureau hears of this. Instruct the technician to delete all reference to the search once it has been emailed to you.’
Chen looked momentarily puzzled, but then quickly turned back to his tent.
After a moment, Zhu heard him rummaging through the mess of clothing and cables to retrieve one of their two GSM 900 satellite phones.
He stood for a moment, staring up at the sheer side of mountain, his eyes tracing up and down the great lines of the rock. If there really was a
beyul
up there, he was sure that’s where the Gelugpas would have hidden the boy. It made perfect sense. But the discovery had to remain his, and his alone. He wasn’t about to let anyone else at the bureau claim credit for such a monumental finding. The
beyul
would be his and that cliff was now the only thing standing between him and the final hiding place of the Panchen Lama.
Come tomorrow morning, he would start to send the soldiers up there two at a time, whether they could climb or not.
Chapter 40
There was no path so René and the two soldiers were forced to pick their way over the shrubs and bracken that clung to the mountain slopes, tripping on roots or tearing the lower parts of their trousers on the ragged thorn bushes. It was slow going. Ahead of them, the towering façade of the rock-face continued unbroken for as far as they could see.
They had been walking for six hours without rest. René was continuing with dogged determination, but could feel his thighs getting shaky with the effort. He muttered to himself, channelling his hatred on to the rapist private a few hundred yards in front. He could see the thickset neck and shuffling walk as Xie followed the SOF sergeant like a lap dog.
René stopped suddenly and peered down at some strange flowers, growing by the side of a large boulder. The flowers looked like prunes, black in colour and wrinkled on top. Short, bristly hairs stuck out in all directions.
‘
Mandragora caulescens
,’ he muttered, gently rubbing his hand over the petals. He had spent almost an entire month trying to find this particular species when he had first arrived in Tibet over eight years ago. And now here it was, right in front of him. If only the circumstances were different.
He looked up to find that the sergeant had stopped and was watching him closely. René stood up and continued walking, coming to a halt just in front of the other two men. He reached into the pocket of his corduroy trousers and pulled out a squashed packet of cigarettes. He was playing for time, thankful for the rest. Folding open the pack, he offered one to the sergeant, who shook his head impatiently. He then deliberately passed over Xie, taking one for himself, and with his other hand, reached back into his pocket for the lighter.
Xie’s quick eyes moved from the pack to René’s face. He lunged forward, trying to snatch them from René’s grasp, but missed. He went to try again but the sergeant’s hand shot out, stopping him in his tracks. The sergeant then whispered something in Mandarin and Xie quickly lowered his eyes to the ground. With a slow shake of his head, the sergeant moved off again in the direction they were headed.
‘Guess you’re not so matey with the boss after all,’ René said. Xie’s expression hardened as he caught the tone of the Westerner’s voice and his eyes followed the line of Renés mocking smile.
As René was about to walk off, Xie suddenly made a soft moaning sound. It was quiet enough for the sergeant not to hear and, as René stared quizzically at him, Xie closed his eyes and licked his lips in a horrible parody of pleasure. He moaned again, high-pitched, like a girl.
‘You son of a bitch!’ René hissed. ‘She was just a child . . .’
Xie gave a leering smile and then swaggered off, content that the Westerner had understood. For a moment René just stared after him, his cheeks flushing red while his titanic body seemed to swell, belly clenching in and barrel chest lifting. Then his huge frame listed forward and he staggered into a run, reaching full speed in just a few strides.
With his shoulder hunched, he crashed into Xie’s back at full force, the impact resounding with a dull thump. Xie was thrown forward, his body twisting horizontally in mid-air before landing heavily on his chest and face. René came crashing down beside him on the wet heather but used his hands to break his fall, rolling away and panting from the effort.
Xie lay on the ground, arms flailing as he tried to recover from the shock of the impact and raise himself on to all fours. A strangled wheezing came from his chest and he lifted his head, panicked eyes staring directly at René. He was so badly winded that for a few seconds the only sound was his laboured gasping for air.
René watched him, a broad smile spreading over his face until, suddenly, his massive head jolted to one side and he dropped to the ground with a thud.
The sergeant stood over him, rifle butt clasped in his hands. He stared down expressionlessly and then slowly shook his head as René lolled on to his back unconscious.
René stumbled on, feeling as if the pain would crack his head in two. They were on their way back to camp. He moved as fast as he could, but the effort was almost unbearable.
Xie walked twenty or so paces behind him in silence, staring like a petulant child at the back of René’s shoulders. Further back still was the sergeant. His rifle was held in his hands rather than slung over his shoulder and he was watching them both carefully. The safety was on, but René had heard the metallic crack of the bolt being pulled back. A round was now loaded in the chamber of his rifle.
As they finally crested the brow of a hill to look down on the green, rip-stop nylon tents of the campsite, René immediately sensed something was amiss. The soldier’s clockwork routine had changed – everyone was in camp and they seemed to be busy. Men were running from tent to tent with a purposeful air about them.
As they drew closer, René could see three of the soldiers were packing rucksacks. High-calorific ration packs and aluminium cooking pots had already been laid out on the grass by the main tent. Two other men were measuring coils of rope, paying them out in metre sections as they counted. Nearer to the fire, the remaining soldiers had spread out nylon covers. On top of them were the entire patrol’s rifles. Each had been recently oiled and hardened plastic caps had been fixed over the sights to protect them from the drizzling rain, while magazines of ammunition lay stacked in piles by each stock.

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