The Ninth Buddha Read Online Free PDF Page B

Revolution, he worked quite happily for the Tsarist regime.   Now he’s a messenger-boy for the Bolsheviks ..   . and just as happy.   He keeps them informed about traffic to and from Tibet.   Low-grade information mostly, but from time to time it throws up pearls.   So they’ve given him a small radio transmitter that he uses to communicate with a controller in Calcutta, whose identity is still unknown to us.
    “We know that Mishig’s control is able to get messages through to Moscow and Europe, but we haven’t yet worked out his system.
    In the meantime, we go on monitoring all the signals that pass between Mishig and Calcutta.”
    There was a pause.   Winterpole took a deep breath.
    “On the tenth of November, we intercepted a message to Calcutta from Mishig.   It was marked “urgent” and had been encoded quite differently to any of his previous signals.   And it was signed with the code-name “Zima”.   That’s Russian for “Winter”.
    It’s the official code-name for Nikolai Zamyatin.”
    Winterpole paused again.   Christopher sensed that he was reluctant to get to the point.
    “Exactly what did this message say?”   he asked.
    “You understand, Christopher,” Winterpole said in a quiet voice, ‘that there can be no going back.   Once I have told you, you won’t be able to leave it alone.   I can still spare you, I can still keep silent.
    It’s your decision.”
    “Tell me.   I have to know.”   He felt the tension in his stomach tighten into a knotted cord.   Outside, the snowflakes danced and fell.
    “He asked for information,” Winterpole said.
    “Information about an Englishman called Christopher John Wylam, who had worked for British intelligence in India.   And about his son.   A boy called William.”
    The undertow had him firmly in its grip at last, and he could feel himself going under.   Thin hands flailing, tearing the sunlight out of the sky.   He said nothing.
    “Three weeks after that,” the other man went on, inexorable now he had begun, ‘we got hold of a signal from Calcutta to Mishig.   It said they had tracked you down in a place called Hexham in England.   There was a request for further instructions.”
    He paused.
    “I’m afraid that’s where things went a bit wrong,” he said.
    “We thought Mishig would send another message to Calcutta later the same day.   He was due to despatch one of his routine signals.   But he never made the broadcast.   He took the next train from Siliguri to Calcutta.   We’re certain he carried the instructions to his control in person either orally or in writing, it doesn’t matter.   That was six days ago.”
    Christopher looked at Winterpole.
    “You knew about this and you didn’t notify me.   You knew something might happen, but you kept quiet.”
    “Try to understand, Christopher.   We needed to know what Zamyatin is up to.   We had to let them show their hand.   I was afraid you might do something to prevent them if you knew.   I’m sorry.”
    “They might have killed him.   For all I know, he’s dead now.
    And they did kill Father Middleton.   For what?”
    “We still need to know, Christopher.   What Zamyatin is doing in Tibet.   What he wants with your son.   I’d like you to go to India, to Kalimpong.   And if it’s necessary, to Tibet.   I think that’s where they’re taking your son.”
    “I know,” Christopher replied.   He looked away from Winterpole.
    Outside, the shadows of night were descending on grey and mottled wings that troubled the snow-filled air.
    “I know,” he said.   And the snow stopped falling and there was only darkness.
    Nedong Pass, southern Tibet, January 1921 He was cold.   There had been more snow that morning, white, blinding snow that had whipped at his face and hands.   It had blotted out everything: the road, the rocks, the footprints they left behind.   It was impossible to tell whether they were still in the pass or not; he thought they