‘There doesn’t have to be, not in China. You know that. And how the hell are you going to explain why you can’t produce the Shanghai photographs? You’ve got to get out. Like I’m going to. I’m empowered to make the decision myself. So I’m making it for you, as well. I’m ordering you to leave with me.’
Snow regarded the other man evenly. ‘You can’t. I only officially obey the Curia, at the Vatican.’ People were gathering near the main door, preparing to file through into the banqueting room. Snow saw that Father Robertson was beside Samuels, although they did not appear to be talking very much.
Foster was momentarily open-mouthed at the obvious truth of Snow’s statement. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’
‘It’s the unarguable fact,’ said Snow, calmly. ‘And I don’t in any case see the need to panic: even if I had the freedom to leave I would not.’
‘You’re being absolutely foolish.’
‘It’s rational, sensible thinking.’ Snow was surprised – and glad – at how easily he was breathing. He felt no tension at all now.
Foster was briefly silent. ‘I read what you told London: about not working any longer with me.’
‘I gave the undertaking that you could,’ reminded Snow.
‘None of this is my fault,’ insisted Foster. ‘You brought investigation upon yourself.’
‘There is no investigation!’ said Snow, brusquely. ‘At the moment you are my only link with London. I’m asking you fully to advise London of Li’s visit. But don’t make it any more sinister than it is: which is hardly sinister at all. The one thing I do need, however, are copies of the photographs.’ Abandoning an earlier unease, he went on: ‘It must be scientifically possible to treat them to take out what I got in the background in, Shanghai. The ones that can’t be altered I will say spoiled in the developing.’
‘He won’t believe that,’ said Foster. ‘No one would.’
‘Ask London to come up with a better excuse then,’ said Snow. ‘The photographs will provide an obvious first meeting, with whoever it is I am to liaise with in the future.’
‘London won’t continue with anything, not after this!’ predicted Foster, adamantly. ‘It would be madness!’
‘Wouldn’t it be greater madness for them not to continue? Surely if I don’t at least provide some photographs it’ll be confirmation of whatever suspicion you think Li has about me.’
‘What a mess!’ moaned Foster. ‘A complete and utter bloody mess!’
‘It’ll only become a mess if it’s mishandled.’ Did he really think that? Yes, Snow decided, positively. Li’s unexpected visit was unnerving, but that was all, at its worst. And only then to someone who allowed his nerve to go at the first uncertainty. Foster was wrong, as he was wrong about most things, in saying the Chinese did not need proof before taking action against Westerners. That might have been true during the Cultural Revolution: Father Robertson was a prime example of what things had been like then. And they still behaved as they thought fit against their own people, in the name of stability against counter-revolution, as they had in Tiananmen Square. But he was sure the ruling hierarchy were now, if belatedly, too conscious of outside world opinion to move arbitrarily against a foreigner.
‘You’re a fool!’ said Foster, quiet-voiced in final resignation. The initial redness had gone but a nerve was pulling beneath his left eye, making his face twitch.
‘You’ll tell London all I’ve said?’ There was no reason to let things degenerate into acrimony.
‘Of course I will.’
‘Exactly as I’ve said it?’
‘Of course,’ repeated Foster. The looks about him now were practically those of embarrassment, as if he were anxious to break off contact with someone with whom he was socially ill-at-ease.
‘I don’t want any new arrangement maintained at a distance. Emphasize that to London. I want meetings.’
The encounter was broken by the summons to lunch. The seating was at round tables, variously set either for groups of eight or ten. He and Father Robertson were at separate places, with a mixture of Chinese and English, obviously for the communication bridge both could provide, beyond the top-table interpreters for the official speeches. The purpose for his being at the embassy already fulfilled, Snow relaxed, although still unsure how accurately Foster – and to a lesser extent the annoyingly supercilious Samuels – would pass on what he had said.
The official speeches were predictably boring, made more so by the slowness of the simultaneous translation between the two languages. Frequently Snow had to correct misunderstandings on his immediate table and he wondered just how much was really being comprehended by the audience. Both Samuels and Father Robertson were seated directly to face him, from their respective tables. Throughout the meal and the speeches, both men studiously ignored him. Foster was on the far side of the room, with his back towards him.
Snow broke away from his table group at the end of the meal, not wanting to become inveigled as an unofficial interpreter in the afternoon seminar. Five tables away, Father Robertson was standing in what looked to be confused aimlessness, people swirling around him. Snow hurried to the man and said: ‘I think we should go now.’
The smell of alcohol was very strong from the old man. He allowed himself to be led towards the exit, not the door leading deeper into the embassy for the business conference.
As they crossed the courtyard, towards the Guang Hua Road, Snow dropped the guiding hand and said: ‘I spoke to Samuels.’
Father Robertson rallied, stiffening himself as he walked. ‘He told me you don’t think it is serious.’
‘It isn’t,’ insisted Snow, practically automatically now.
‘He said he hopes you’re right.’
‘So do I,’ said Snow, wishing at once that he hadn’t: it made it seem as if he were unsure and he wasn’t, not at all.
Nineteen
They met again at The Spaniards, so Charlie Muffin guessed she lived somewhere in the Swiss Cottage or Hampstead area. As before he got there first, managing one drink ahead of her arrival. She was shiny-faced again. The top, over the same jeans, was all-enveloping but a different colour, tonight a subdued brown. Charlie hadn’t ordered for her, in case she wanted something different, but again she chose beer. He waited until the second drink before suggesting dinner again. She accepted after a token hesitation.
Charlie let the conversation drift for a while before saying: ‘Surprised I haven’t heard by now from the stony Miss Elder.’ He decided, too late, that it was a clumsy effort but the other toss-and-catch conversation was becoming a pain in the ass.
Her reply was interesting. ‘Do you think she’s stony?’
‘Rocklike,’ he insisted. Exaggerating, he said: ‘She frightens the shit out of me.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true,’ persisted Charlie. ‘Miss Elder is the original ball-breaker. No humanity. No feeling.’
‘You’re wrong.’
What the hell did that mean? ‘I don’t think I am,’ he said, inviting the contradiction.
‘Professionally, maybe. She can be very kind, otherwise.’
That hadn’t come out as well as he’d wanted. ‘Well hidden,’ he said, still encouraging a contrary argument.
‘She’s definitely very controlled,’ agreed the girl.
Still not good enough, judged Charlie, signalling for more drinks. ‘She was hard-assed towards me. Take it or leave it ultimatum: except that I couldn’t leave it. The other choice was to be a caretaker.’
The idea amused Julia. She sniggered and said: ‘I don’t really see you as a caretaker.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Charlie. ‘So here I am, stuck.’
‘Maybe things will change, in time.’
A pointer, from some inner-circle knowledge! seized Charlie. Or a casual, meaningless remark? Pressing the exchange, he said: ‘I’d certainly like to think so.’
‘What’s so important, about being actively operational?’
‘It’s what I know how to do.’