Then there was another creak in the floor ahead of them. Carslake’s tall figure shoved back past him, scrambling to get out. Idiot.
Stone span round like a top. It was all over. In the lamplight, the muzzle of an assault rifle peered malignantly round the door where he had just come in with Carslake. There was a determined Chinese eye looking at them over the barrel. Carslake changed tack. He walked straight up on impulse, as if oblivious of the gun. He certainly had some nerve. Or was it stupidity?
It could have been worse. The soldier smashed the butt of the rifle into Carslake’s solar plexus. He went down gasping in pain, like he couldn’t breathe.
Stone walked up slowly, and the gun was turned on him. Let’s see what he’s made of. Stone made eye contact with the soldier, and held it. Didn’t raise his arms. The soldier glanced down, and stepped nimbly over Carslake, keeping his weapon on Stone. He was tall, as tall as Stone. He didn’t break the stare, just advanced steadily, till the muzzle of the gun was a few centimetres in front of Stone’s cool, grey eyes. See you and raise you.
It’s difficult to stare down a bullet. Stone put his hands up.
Chapter 48 — 3:11am 10 April — Shanglan Monastery, Garze Autonomous Prefecture, Sichuan, China
Ying Ning came in view with her arms bound tight and high behind her, like a wild animal. She was kicked and force-marched across in front of Stone and Carslake, who were kneeling on the ground outside the accommodation block, cuffed, with their hands on their heads. One guy held the arms high behind Ying Ning’s shoulders, on the point of dislocation, and another was pulling her head back by the hair. A strip of her black T-shirt was tied in a vicious ligature across her mouth. Lips pulled back, red and bleeding at the side. Her teeth protruded around the tight gag, preternaturally white and vulpine despite the darkness. They were ordering her to kneel, pulling the spiky hair back in their fists and shoving her shoulders down. She looked suddenly small and slight with the soldiers towering over her, but still refused to kneel for them. Finally an officer came round and kicked her knees viciously at the back until her legs buckled and her kneecaps thumped into the ground. Stone turned his eyes to her slowly. She stared ahead, a bloody contusion above her left eye. She looked tiny, a thin, bloodied wraith. But undiminished.
One of Ying Ning’s captors walked in front. He looked shaken. Blood on his face and a long fleck of saliva on the shiny, black webbing across his chest. Ying Ning’s eyes followed him, burning. Behind the gag, she was smiling. She was actually trying to taunt him.
An engine revved harshly and a dark green jeep pulled round in front. Then with another whine of the gearbox, it lurched back towards them and stopped, rear tow bar a metre from their faces, exhaust fumes belching at them. Carslake closed his eyes and coughed fastidiously. There was a bark of command from within and the Gong An officers hauled first Stone, then Carslake in through the tailgate of the jeep. Ying Ning struggled again, trying to kick out, until they lifted her bound shoulders to breaking point and she uttered an animal scream from behind the gag. An officer removed his shiny black belt, tied it hard around her knees, then threw her in. The back door slammed and they were away, bumping and bouncing over the rough ground and then away onto the road.
Not one of them spoke, but the questions passed through Stone’s mind like a funeral procession. How many monks arrested? Was it possible they’d all escaped through the woods? Possible. Also very unlikely. And what would become of Giyenchen and the others, who were completely blameless?
The mystery of what was happening in the crater behind that fence, the gravity anomaly, the darkened, unmanned factory in Shanghai for that matter — it was all so fanciful, a world away from the harsh reality of the back of a Chinese truck. They could hardly even complain. Stone had tried to stop Panchen when he killed that truck driver, but not tried hard enough.
Carslake, meanwhile, had stood by, dreaming of spaceships.
Stone thought again of his therapist, the psych he’d seen after the army. The one with the “rules for living”. Stone had never told the guy the truth, or anything approaching it, but he had come out with what he said were his own rules — “avoid hypocrisy”, “be judged on your actions, not your words”, “don’t shrink from a fight”, “confront people who are doing wrong”. Had he believed that, even then? Kind of. But his real opinion was that he had a need for confrontation, that he was still seeking the thrill of combat, that his peace campaigns were just a way of seeking danger without a gun in his hand.
Now cuffed and bound of the floor of that Chinese jeep he could see the therapist had a point. The therapist had claimed Stone was driven by comradeship, even though he was a loner. In some twisted way, the guy said that Stone put himself into danger and got into fights to “win approval”.
Stone had despised all that stuff at the time. It had been years later before he realised that looking for trouble wins you very few friends, even if you’re a “Peace Professor”. And here’s another “rule for living”. For most people over thirty, “brave” means the same as “stupid”.
The jeep drove for no more than a few kilometres before it lurched to a stop once more. The engine cut out. They heard steps walking round from the front of the vehicle, and the tailgate door opened once more onto the mountains. The Tibetan star field above once more, fading slightly in the gathering dawn. Mocking them.
A figure appeared, red-faced in the taillights. His face was wizened and lined with age. He chuckled slightly at them; then, to make his point he pulled out the scripture reel and began to twirl, grating and rattling in the silent forest. He took off his over-sized Gong An peaked hat to reveal his monk’s shaven head, and made a small bow of greeting.
Venching was the monk’s name. He wasn’t much of a driver, but that was unlikely to bother Stone, Ying Ning or Carslake. He said they would make for the town of Garze and then on to Chengdu.
There weren’t many roads in this half of Sichuan, and though the area was vast, even rudimentary roadblocks would catch them. Venching acknowledged this.
‘Even worse to head West for Batang,’ he said. Batang was the one border crossing with Tibet over the mountains. ‘Many police and Gong An at Batang.’
This was true. Once they were missed, the Gong An would expect them to head for Tibet. Heading back into the teeming cities of Sichuan was safer. China has far fewer police per head than most countries. If they had a head start on the Gong An troops behind them, they had a chance of getting as far as Garze. After that, the police would have to spread themselves extremely thinly if they were going to find them amongst the hundred million people in the lowlands of Sichuan.
The old monk’s English was surprisingly good, with something of an American accent. He said had he spent time with American journalists in Tibet back in the 1950’s, and still listened to some BBC radio. His speech was peppered by erudite-sounding journalistic cliches.
‘You have been at the monastery for a long time?’ asked Stone.
‘Since it was re-opened. 1977.’
‘What about Lin Biao?’ asked Carslake. Back on his favourite topic. ‘What was he doing up here in 1969?’
The old monk laughed gently. ‘You heard the story of Lin Biao too?’ he said. ‘I have no idea. It is true that he had deep shelters built here. Luxury apartments with swimming pools underground. Food and water to last for years. But Lin Biao did many strange things.’
‘Strange? Like Steven Semyonov?’ asked Carslake again. Had he never heard of the term “leading question”?