‘So you’re going to keep things from me!’ she said as they reached the vestibule leading out into the rue de Varenne, pretending still to be offended.
‘Nothing important that will ever affect you and me,’ promised Gower, taking her opening.
They set out walking unhurriedly towards the Dome des Invalides, the Eiffel Tower illuminated in the far distance. Marcia clung to his arm, pulling herself close to him. Not thinking any longer of the talk he had orchestrated between them or of how successful it had been, Gower said: ‘Nothing is going to stop it being like this always.’
Marcia stopped, bringing Gower to a halt beside her, determined in her slight drunkenness to emphasize what she was going to say. ‘I’m never, ever, going to keep a secret from you! I love you so much I want you to know everything.’
At last Gower felt a flicker of unease at deceiving her, trying quickly to erase it. He’d had to do it, he tried to convince himself. Nothing he would have to keep from her would affect their personal relationship anyway. Better for her to know virtually nothing than everything and go through hell every time he went off on an assignment. Hadn’t that been another lecture?
Snow knew that with so much information to pass on and even more to discuss it was essential for there to be a personal meeting between himself and Foster, although there was no close enough event on the British embassy calendar to use to cover the encounter. So it had to be governed by the system for emergency contact established by Foster.
The marker point was the Taoist temple to the west of the Forbidden City, a run-down area of lean-to food stalls and skeletal flower booths. It was because of the flower-sellers that Foster had selected the spot. The day after his arrival back in Beijing Snow went there to purchase a spray of meagre chrysanthemums, carefully selecting only four orange blooms in the bunch. He arranged the flowers on the far left of the travellers’ shrine outside the temple. He had to pass the shrine on three consecutive days before he saw Foster’s agreement signal, a replacement bouquet in which there were four white chrysanthemums, two already shedding their petals.
Back at the mission that night Father Robertson said: ‘Nothing happened during the journey that might have upset the authorities?’
Snow suppressed the exasperation. ‘Nothing. My escort even talked of coming here, to see our work.’
‘Why?’ demanded the older man, in immediate concern. ‘There must be a reason!’ By this time in the afternoon the smell of whisky was always strong, the words slipping.
‘I don’t expect he will come.’
‘We won’t make any more travel applications for a while,’ decided the mission head. ‘It upsets them.’
Snow released the sigh at last. There was so much more he could achieve, on every level, if this doddering old man were withdrawn.
Twelve
The rendezvous was prearranged in the Purple Bamboo Park, triggered by Snow leaving the flower signal at the Taoist temple. Snow went through what he considered the totally unnecessary and ridiculous routine, impatient for Walter Foster to arrive. It was possible the man wouldn’t make the meet at all. Foster only completed an encounter after satisfying himself it was safe to do so. If there was no approach, it would mean Foster was not satisfied: the attempt would have to be tried the following day at a different location.
Outwardly he was sure he appeared a foreigner relaxing in one of the city’s most attractive public places. To Snow’s right, in the park, there were several pockets of kite-flyers: closer, near the pagoda by a stream, a group of people, all elderly, were going through the tai ji quan dance of meditation, like choreographed, slow-motion boxers. Snow looked from one to the other with apparent interest, in reality seeking Foster, who had to be already there, somewhere, making sure.
Snow decided he couldn’t go on like this. He had to endure the twitching existence with Father Robertson, because there was no alternative: the Jesuit Curia were prepared to accept the Chinese government retaining the elderly priest as their tame totem, which in turn enabled Snow to take up residence in the city, even though he was not officially recognized as a Jesuit priest, nor at the moment officially permitted to perform or instruct any of their teachings. But he was no longer prepared to endure this arm’s-length existence with Walter Foster. If the man wasn’t agreeable to any improvement, he’d complain directly to London. Snow smiled to himself, the irritation and impatience lessening at a sudden awareness. The ultimate resolve lay entirely with him: if a change wasn’t agreed, he’d refuse to go on. Snow knew he was too good – too useful – for them to lose him like that. Christian or unchristian considerations about Foster’s career didn’t come into it: Foster had made the unacceptable rules.
And then he saw the man.
The supposed diplomat was hurrying from the direction of the pagoda, head lowered, eyes to the ground, as if he were trying physically to diminish himself. Getting nearer the bench upon which Snow sat, Foster lifted his head to make a last-minute check before lowering himself on to the adjoining seat. The entire charade had looked absurdly furtive.
‘We’re quite clear,’ announced Foster. He was a small man, red hair awry from his hurried walk, red-faced as well from the exertion. The redness accentuated the freckles. The three jacket buttons of his tight, blue-striped suit were all secured: he didn’t undo them when he sat down, straining into tight ridges the cloth around his slightly bulged body. In his lap his hands moved constantly one over the other, as if he were washing them.
‘Of course we are!’ said Snow. ‘We could have set up something far more sensible if you’d agreed to see me before I left.’
‘It wasn’t possible.’
‘It could have been made possible. I’m not prepared to go on like this. If you want me to continue – if London wants me to continue – there must be regular meetings.’
‘I could talk with London. They make the rules.’
Snow sighed, wondering if the man had ever made an independent decision in his life. ‘If there’s no improvement, I want to take it up with London myself.’
There was another sideways look. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘I do not want to do anything to endanger your position here. Or your career. I will show you any letter I wish to be sent on to London.’
Foster was silent for several moments. ‘You’re being very honest.’
‘Priests are supposed to be honest.’ It was not, Snow accepted, a dictum he practised with Father Robertson. He considered the deceit justified. There was a concentrated movement far away to their right, a few people running, and Snow realized that the wind was dropping and the kites with it: two or three seemed to have collided, snarling their lines.
‘I was told very specifically in London that there never had to be any official difficulty: since the changes in Moscow, this is the most sensitive posting in the world.’
Snow sighed again, realizing there was no purpose in taking this up at a local level. ‘Talk to London,’ he urged, but patiently at last. ‘Say – and I really want you to say – that I can’t continue working under this present arrangement.’
‘That is a threat!’ insisted the man.
‘It’s a choice. Your choice. London’s choice.’ Snow was surprised he didn’t feel more uncomfortable, talking so aggressively: actually browbeating the other man. But was he? Wasn’t he, rather, trying to restore a situation to the proper footing, the way he’d operated with all Foster’s predecessors?
There was another silence between them, longer this time. Across the park, all the birdlike kites had come home to roost: men were huddled in head-bent intensity, untangling strings. At last Foster said: ‘Tell me about the trip.’
Well rehearsed, Snow went chronologically through the journey, setting out the successes before reaching Zhengzhou and the less easily documented findings afterwards. He finished by edging along the seat to the other man a brown paper carton containing canisters of all the film he had exposed, his journal of the map coordinates he believed important and his full written account of everything that had happened. Foster became more and more agitated during the narrative, finally twisting directly to face the priest.