Kingdom Read online

  ‘Now, monk, let’s see you act like a real man. I order you to have sex with this peasant girl.’

  The light had gone out in Dorgen Trungpa’s eyes. Nothing in his eighteen years of life had prepared him for this. All he knew was the round of monastery ceremonies, the weeks of prayer and fasting and meditation, the festivals in the village and the order of a life maintained in unison with the forces of the universe. His breath came in short desperate gasps as the soldiers picked him up and thrust him towards the equally terrified girl. He would not look at her nakedness but he could hear her desperate low moans, like a dying animal. The officer shouted encouragement in a sardonic voice.

  ‘Come on, boy! Forget the lies of these evil old men. Vows of celibacy are nonsense. You have been brainwashed, that is all . . . Now my patience is running out . . . I order you to have sex with this girl and when you have finished you will set fire to the monastery library.’

  Before the monk’s eyes, all the horrors that The Tibetan Book of the Dead had described to him in rich detail seemed to be coming true: the soul afflicted by awful demons and unspeakable pain at the point of death. But this was life, an unspeakable sort of life, a life Dorgen Trungpa had no powers to comprehend. And he closed his eyes, calmed his breathing and tried, against all the odds, to free his mind.

  2

  It was daytime. That was all that Nancy Kelly knew. Where she was, or what time it was, she couldn’t remember. The banging noise started again. Above her head an enormous fan hung from the ceiling, its giant blades turning morosely but failing to generate even the slightest whisper of a breeze. For a second she stared at the fan in confusion and then everything clicked into place: she was in India, in Delhi, in the company apartment. And there was someone knocking on the door.

  Cursing no one in particular, Nancy groaned with exhaustion and rolled over in bed. The curtains were little more than diaphanous white sheets and the room was bathed in light. She felt disoriented and sick but she had only been in India for a few hours.

  Surely I can’t be ill already, she thought, that would be just too unfair.

  She fumbled around on the bedside table, picked up her phone and stared at its clock in confusion, uncertain whether she had changed the settings from New York to Delhi time. She remembered that her plane had landed in the middle of the night, that a driver had ushered her through the crowds of beggars and touts offering to change her dollars and find her cheap hotel rooms, to the safety of the waiting Mercedes. She had sunk back into the almost uncomfortably large leather seat and stared out of the window, watching the colour and chaos of the Delhi night drift by as if it was on a television screen until finally the car had slipped into the darkness of an empty street and deposited her outside the apartment building.

  Nancy Kelly had come to Delhi to be the new International Herald Tribune South Asia Bureau Chief. She was thirty years old, which was young for the post, but she had been very fortunate with the timing. It was a new stage in her career and equally a new stage in her life. She hoped that it would allow her to put the recent past behind her and that the exoticism and excitements of India would help her forget her last few months in New York, months that had seemed at times to pass as slowly as whole years.

  The knocking continued, but Nancy was still too groggy and confused to get out of bed. The message icon was flashing on her phone. Shouting weakly at the noise – ‘Coming, just a minute’ – she opened the message. It was a mail from her ex-boyfriend, James Long, the Tribune’s Buenos Aires correspondent. That made her heart sink; she could not help thinking that it was an inauspicious sign that the first message she should receive in India was from him. She had met him five years ago when they had been working together in the New York office; they had dated for three. She had been, unquestionably, in love – but their desires were so different. He wanted to settle down with a wife who stayed at home and looked after his children: that was never going to be her. Finally, he announced he had found someone else, someone he had met whilst she had been on one of her frequent trips abroad – a motherly stay-at-home type. She was from Argentina and James, it seemed, was very lucky: the Buenos Aires job came up the next day and James applied for the post and got it. Either that or he’d been seeing the woman for much longer than either he or Nancy wanted to admit. That was three months ago – she should have seen it coming but she took it very badly. She knew that they weren’t suited but that didn’t stop her being in love.

  ‘My dearest Nancy, I am so sorry that I did not return your calls. As I explained to you when we last spoke, I felt it was better if . . .’

  She stopped reading and then she weighed the phone in the palm of her hand before pressing Delete. She exhaled with relief, as if she had just made the right decision about which wire to cut and had successfully defused a bomb. A few months ago, she observed with the fragility and hollowness that comes after grief, she would have been desperate to hear from him, but now that at last she had almost regained her equilibrium the very last thing she wanted to do was to re-establish contact.

  ‘My dearest James,’ she said out loud as the diaphanous white curtains stirred gently in the sultry Delhi breeze, ‘I now understand that there will come a day, perhaps not too far in the future, when I will actually get over you . . .’

  She managed a forced smile and then looked around the bedroom, almost hoping for encouragement from her new surroundings. Goddamn this knocking, she thought. ‘OK OK,’ she said, and really tried to move herself. She shifted her legs off the bed, rubbed her eyes. She was in one of the most fascinating countries in the world, with a challenging career break ahead of her, and the past was behind her.

  Things had slipped into place, almost uncannily. The vacancy in India was announced the same morning that she made up her mind to go abroad. Or more accurately, Dan Fischer, the editor, who was over from Paris, had tapped her on the shoulder and invited her into his office. Anton Herzog, her hero, everybody’s hero at the Trib and the longest-ever-serving Delhi Bureau Chief, had gone missing three months earlier. After twenty years in the job, he had vanished without a trace into the mountains of Tibet. Dan Fischer had waited and waited but finally the board had put pressure on him: someone had to be found to fill the post; India was the biggest story in Asia and the paper couldn’t wait indefinitely for Herzog to return. Nancy was offered the job on the spot. Dan didn’t even bother to advertise it on the paper’s internal vacancies board – a fact Nancy would have found far more puzzling had she not been so glad of the opportunity to leave New York. It was a big posting and she had never even set foot in India, but Dan told her she had powerful supporters on the paper, people who admired her writing and her investigative skill. And, of course, not having a partner might actually have been to her advantage – people with partners always found it so much more difficult to move. But she had big boots to fill, Dan had quipped as he shook her warmly by the hand. Anton was a legend – she would have to be at the top of her game. She had smiled gratefully, bewildered by the strange and fortunate turn of events, but it was a huge opportunity and she certainly wasn’t going to quibble about the unorthodox hiring procedure.

  As for poor old Anton, the rugged, sixty-year-old Argentine–American, everyone just hoped that he was off on one of his periodic jaunts and that sooner or later he would reappear. It was Anton who had first inspired Nancy to become a journalist, but despite her enormous admiration for him, she didn’t know him well. She had always loved his stories, and whenever she picked up a copy of the paper she always searched for them first, but the truth was she had only ever had the chance to meet him on a couple of occasions. He was rarely in the office, and when he was, Dan Fischer treated him like royalty and hardly let anyone else get near to him. On the couple of occasions when she had got to speak to him he had always been so kind and encouraging – and so modest – but she had been tantalized rather than satisfied by their meetings. She hoped that he would walk back into the Delhi office before too long, no doubt with a f
ew more prize-winning tales under his belt, and this time she would be the first to get to hear them.

  But it was true that there were voices of disquiet. Some of Anton’s close friends, the other old stagers back in the New York office, were getting steadily more and more worried that something else might have happened. Normally someone would get a call, or a postcard, or something, but this time they had received no word at all. Anton had been a fine mountaineer in his youth, they said, and he was also a stubborn man. It wasn’t too hard to imagine that he could have overextended himself on a climb somewhere, no doubt underequipped, relying on his notorious intelligence and strength. He was an old-school correspondent; he spoke several Asian languages and he had a huge knowledge of India and China and Tibet. On countless occasions he had turned down promotions and pay rises to continue to do what he loved: being out in the field on his own, chasing stories and taking risks that reporters half his age would shy away from. He was a legend, that was for certain, and maybe this was why everyone was so unwilling to contemplate the worst.

  And now Nancy almost jumped out of her skin. The knocking had suddenly become much louder. An Indian voice was shouting her name through the letterbox. She tossed the phone onto the bed and stood up. Fumbling in her suitcase, she found a pair of khaki trousers and a clean shirt, which she slipped on. She grabbed a hairband and tied her thick shoulder-length brown hair into a loose ponytail. Glancing in a mirror, she noticed that she looked tired but that was hardly surprising, she thought.

  Stepping into the hall, she suddenly had a view of the main sitting room. She’d been too worn out to look around when she arrived, but what she saw now amazed her. The room was overflowing with antique stone statues and figurines. Literally every surface of every table – and there were lots of antique tables of every size and shape – was crammed with carved statues. Some were huge life-size stone sculptures of Buddha’s head, others were meticulous little carvings of merchants from the Silk Road mounted on camel back. The overall effect was astounding; it was like looking into a storeroom at Sotheby’s. Clearly, Anton Herzog had been a connoisseur . . .

  ‘Miss Kelly. If you are there can you please open the door?’

  The voice was loud and impatient. She knelt down at the letterbox and saw a pair of brown eyes staring back at her through the slit.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is the police. My name is Captain Hundalani. Please open the door.’

  The eyes disappeared as Captain Hundalani stood up.

  ‘Er . . . Yes . . .’

  Nancy clicked open the three locks and opened the door a crack, and then seeing that two of the three Indian men in the hall were wearing police uniforms she swung the door open and let them in. The third man was wearing an impeccable dark suit. Captain Hundalani was in his early thirties, clean-shaven except for a neatly trimmed moustache. Neither he nor the policemen were smiling. The Captain said, ‘Miss Kelly, we are sorry to disturb you. However our business is urgent.’

  ‘Er . . . OK,’ said Nancy. ‘Come in. Perhaps in here’ – and she gestured towards the sitting room. ‘Have a seat, wherever you like. It’s not my apartment . . . It belongs to Mr Herzog, my colleague at the Herald Tribune. Or rather he lives here . . . Really it’s the company’s apartment. But Mr Herzog’s away . . .’

  Captain Hundalani cut in. His voice was cold and emotionless.

  ‘Yes. We know all that, Miss Kelly. That is precisely the reason that we are here . . . Please, you will find it is best if you wait until we have explained.’

  There was an unmistakable air of menace to his voice, Nancy thought. But she couldn’t imagine what the problem was. She could hardly be in trouble for not registering with the police; she had only been in town for a few hours. With a feeling of panic rising in her belly she found a silk-covered chair, of an age and beauty she hardly had time to consider, and sat down. Mr Hundalani and the two policemen were still standing, glowering at her.

  ‘We’d like you to come with us, Miss Kelly . . . To answer a few questions . . .’

  There was not even a flicker of friendship on Captain Hundalani’s face. A wave of adrenalin washed over her.

  ‘What? Why? I’ve only been in India for a few hours. I only just woke. Surely I am allowed to change my clothes and have a shower before I register.’

  Her voice sounded small and weak – she could hear herself speaking almost as if she wasn’t saying the words herself. And then, suddenly, to her absolute horror and astonishment, it dawned on her what was really going on.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  Captain Hundalani paused for a second, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘No, Miss Kelly. Not if you come with us.’

  Her throat was dry:

  ‘What are you talking about? I’ve been here only a few hours, and I’ve been asleep for most of those. How can I possibly have done anything illegal?’

  ‘Our investigation concerns your colleague Mr Anton Herzog. It concerns his real reasons for being in India and Tibet.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s a very compelling subject, Anton’s a fascinating man. But I don’t see how I can help you. I’ve never been to India and I haven’t seen him in months. I’m here to replace him, not to answer for his misdemeanours, whatever they were.’ She looked nervously up and down the room, at the massed statues and antiques, all of them testifying to the personality of the absent Herzog. ‘Anyway, you can’t just march in here and take me away . . . Let me call the office; I need a lawyer.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that one of the policemen had placed his hand on the handcuffs that hung from his belt. Nancy could hardly believe what was happening, and what was most terrifying was that there seemed to be absolutely nothing she could do.

  Paralysed by the course of events, she stood there as the policeman unhooked the handcuffs from his belt and then slipped them around her wrists.

  ‘But I haven’t done anything, I need a lawyer,’ she repeated feebly, aware that she sounded just like a young child, unable to comprehend the logic by which her guilt had been arrived at, too naive to understand the transgressions she had committed. And then Captain Hundalani smiled: a cold smile, insincere and condescending.

  He didn’t even bother to argue.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible Miss Kelly. Now, if you have decided to cooperate, perhaps we can leave? Things will be much easier if we all remain friends.’

  3

  ‘Stop this at once.’

  A loud voice with a Beijing accent rang out across the courtyard. Dorgen Trungpa’s eyes opened in amazement, as if a god had spoken.

  All heads turned from the naked girl to the monastery gates. There, between the broken gates, stood a tall, handsome, northern Chinese man, wearing a standard army-issue rain cape and the peaked cap of an officer. Behind him down the track other human shapes were visible, moving in the rain. Now that he had everyone’s attention, the northerner spoke again – directly to the army officer.

  ‘Order your men to stop vandalizing the monastery at once – and give the girl back her clothes. What do you think you are doing? The Cultural Revolution finished decades ago. And let the boy go.’

  Dorgen Trungpa could hardly believe his ears. It was as if a guardian angel had materialized out of the jungle. A shadow of outrage passed across the army officer’s face. ‘How dare you march in here, barking orders? I am the senior officer in Pemako region. Who the hell do you think you are? Explain yourself or I’ll have you shot at once.’

  The northerner strode across the courtyard and as he approached, it became clear who he was from the insignia on his cap badge and the knee-length polished black leather boots that flashed under his raincoat as he walked. He was a Colonel in the notorious Public Security Bureau, or PSB as it was known, the Chinese equivalent of the CIA and the FBI all rolled in to one. Even the faithful supporters of the Communist Party lived in fear of the PSB. They were the thought police of the Chinese government, the guard dogs
of the revolution.

  The soldiers in the courtyard stiffened noticeably as they recognized the northerner’s rank and affiliation. When he reached the centre of the courtyard he drew a letter from his pocket and held it out with a straight arm to the stunned army officer. The envelope was sealed shut with a single red star, wax seal.

  ‘I am Colonel Wei Jen of the PSB. Orders from General Te of Southern Command in Chongqing. I am now the senior officer in Pemako, and henceforth all army units south of the Su La pass are under my command. And that includes you.’

  The army officer stared in disbelief at Colonel Jen and then, like a petulant child, he snatched the envelope from the Colonel’s grasp and tore it open. For a minute he studied the orders and then he turned back to his men with a look of angry humiliation on his face.

  ‘Give the woman her clothes and assemble by the gates . . . And let the monk go.’

  Dorgen Trungpa was roughly pushed forward. Released, he ran over to the body of the Abbot and flung himself onto the old man, weeping. Colonel Jen smiled at the army officer and nodded his approval.

  ‘Good. These superstitious old monks are a tourist attraction and nothing more. The old Tibet is dead and gone – we can afford to be lenient on the last remaining savages.’

  Colonel Jen slapped the army officer on the back and continued, not wanting the man to lose any more face than he had already done.

  ‘In Lhasa, the capital, there are now twice as many Chinese as there are Tibetans. We do not need to persecute their absurd beliefs any longer – the young people are more interested in mobile phones than prayer wheels. The good sense of communism has replaced the foolish religion of the monks.’