The Buddha of Brewer Street. Michael DobbsЧитать онлайн книгу.
felt in forty years, a sensation that had grown more fierce with every passing day. Now it felt as though it was on fire. He rubbed the palm against his chest, but it burned still more fiercely. The outline of the scar had grown red, like a map drawn on the parchment of his skin. A map of what, he had no idea. But he knew it was another sign.
The book and the black eye arrived in his office together, both being carried by Mickey.
‘What the hell have you been up to?’ Goodfellowe growled, seeing the mark that not even a copious sponging of Clinique concealer had been able to hide. Then, remembering his manners: ‘You all right?’
‘Just a little accident.’
‘Accident? What accident?’
‘The truth?’
‘Of course the bloody truth.’
‘Stage diving.’
His silence betokened utter ignorance.
‘Stage diving,’ she repeated. ‘You know, when you try to get up on stage?’
‘You’ve been auditioning for Pygmalion,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘And you fell off the casting couch?’
She looked at him waspishly, the slight bump above her left eye giving her an uncharacteristic scowl. ‘Bugger off.’
‘Whoops, sorry,’ he said, not meaning it.
‘Stage diving,’ she repeated, trying again. ‘The stage in question was at the LSE. A university bash. Def Leppard were playing.’
‘Deaf who …?’
She rolled her eyes in despair. ‘They’re a band. Heavy metal. The sort of music with megatons of bass that makes your skull vibrate. The sort that needs tight leather pants just to keep you in.’
‘I wonder why I haven’t heard of them,’ he muttered, all sarcasm.
‘So the idea is that you work up a rush of blood, jump up onto the stage and try to grab a piece of them.’
‘What on earth is the point?’
‘Not much. They’re ancient, about your age. Most stage divers wouldn’t have a clue what to do if we actually caught them. But we don’t. The purpose of the exercise is for the roadies – their road crew – to grab hold of you and throw you back into the crowd. Or rather, onto the crowd, since everyone’s packed so tight in front of the stage that all they can do is pass you back over their heads. Which means hundreds and hundreds of deliciously sweaty hands tossing you around and passing all over your body.’
‘But why would people want to do that?’
She groaned. ‘Take a wild guess, Goodfellowe.’
The impression began to form, and he had the grace to look momentarily stunned.
‘But last night they must’ve been down on numbers.’ She shrugged. ‘They dropped me.’
He studied her, studied her body, very closely, imagining the hands. His hands. He gathered his flustered thoughts. ‘Two suggestions. First, don’t spread that around this place. Wouldn’t do you any good. Or me, for that matter. Say you ran into a filing cabinet; that’s the standard parliamentary excuse for a black eye.’
‘And second?’
‘When I say I want the truth …’ He winced. ‘I’m not sure I always mean it.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘I guess you were young once.’
‘Don’t bet on it. Anyway, enough of your off-duty diversions. What work have we got?’
She handed him a book that was floating on top of the usual pile of daily letters. ‘Came this morning. From the Dalai Lama.’
‘You’re not the only one full of surprises,’ he offered as he inspected the book. It was an elderly edition of the writings of Sun Tzu, the Chinese military strategist who had written about the art of warfare more than two thousand years before (although he lived so long ago that scholars debated endlessly about whether he truly wrote the works, or if he even existed). The thick paper was brittle and discoloured with age, the cover of cheap card and scuffed. With great care Goodfellowe opened the book, at random, concerned lest the pages should fall apart in his hands.
‘If you rely on Government to put out the fire, by the time the bucket arrives there is nothing left but ashes,’ he read.
He smiled wryly. ‘Two thousand years and nothing’s changed.’
‘At least in those days the Government could afford a bucket.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why is a Tibetan man of peace passing on the musings of a Chinese warlord?’
‘There’s a letter in the back.’
It was written in a bold hand.
‘My dear Thomas Goodfellowe, I have been interested in military strategy since I played with lead soldiers in the Potala Palace as a child. In those days I always won! We Tibetans were once a warrior race, but now we must fight our battles by other means. Sun Tzu often shows how. I thought he might interest you. Especially since the future has a Chinese face.’
That phrase again. It was dated and signed in Tibetan script that meandered like an ancient river in flood across the page.
‘Bit like the bloody Times crossword, isn’t it?’ Mickey interjected. ‘“The future has a Chinese face.” Does that mean he’s given up?’
Goodfellowe stared at the letter. ‘No, of course he hasn’t given up. Can’t have given up. This is all about continuing to fight the battle, but by other means.’
‘What other means?’
He shook his head. ‘Dunno.’ He placed the book in a desk drawer and turned to the pile of correspondence. ‘And since he’s not a constituent I don’t suppose we’re ever going to have the time to find out. His battles aren’t our battles. They weren’t when I was a Minister, and can’t be now I’ve no more influence than yesterday’s weather forecast.’
Goodfellowe was wrong, of course. He would come to realize that, as soon as he discovered the letter was probably the very last thing the Dalai Lama had written in this life.
Mo could scarcely contain his frustration. He had rushed into the Ambassador’s office, perhaps a trifle enthusiastically but only in order to pass on the good news. Yet he had been forced to stand, humiliated, before her desk while the ancient warrior prattled on about courtesy and youth. It wasn’t as if she had been busy with anything of importance, merely rearranging the clutter of family photographs that dominated her desk.
‘A private secretary should know when privacy is meant to be respected. If they want to remain a private secretary, that is.’
She was constantly changing around those photographs, a daily ritual, like some old woman throwing fortune sticks in the temple. Faded sepia prints of her mother and father, revolutionaries who had met on the Long March, six thousand miles through central China to the caves of Shaanxi. Also one grandmother. Two aunts who had died on that march. Sisters. And of course her only daughter. A sickness her family had, only producing girls. The shame of the Lins.
‘Doors are meant for knocking on, not kicking down,’ Madame Lin lectured.
Mo hung his head, less in respect than in an attempt to hide the flush on his cheek. Listen to her! Kicking down doors? But that’s what the new China was about. The Ambassador was an old woman in an outdated world who had been left behind by the changes that were gripping their country. Sure there was corruption. And chaos. Hadn’t there always been? But now there was also something new. Opportunity. Open doors. Even if occasionally those doors needed a little forcing.
He took a deep breath. ‘Ambassador, I apologize.’
She waved her hand impatiently, leaving Mo unclear as to whether she