Christopher got up from his seat and went to the window. He and Chindamani were sitting in a faded downstairs room belonging to Urga’s old Russian consulate building, roughly midway between Ta Khure and Mai-mai-ch’eng. The consulate consisted of a large, two-storey building built from wood and plaster, topped by an iron roof. Immediately beside it stood the house chapel, with a small cupola.
The consul and his staff had fled months ago, leaving behind a priest, two dogs, a caretaker, and the old Russian cemetery a wasteland of rubble, unmarked graves, and inconstant weeds.
They had met the priest, Father Anton, on their way to the city.
Winterpole had engaged him in conversation, regaling him with stories of his meetings with Father John Sergiev of Kronstadt, the famed spiritual healer at the naval base guarding St. Petersburg.
They found that they had friends and books in common, although Christopher suspected that much of Winterpole’s familiarity with Russian Orthodoxy was little more than bluff. Bluff or not, it was enough to secure them the friendship of the old priest.
He brought them to share his rather primitive quarters at the consulate. He himself lived in an icon-lined room in the west wing of the ground floor, but he gave them rooms on the first floor, more luxurious apartments that had belonged to the departed diplomats.
The building had been looted shortly after the consul and his people left, and the rooms were all but devoid of furniture or trappings. But Father Anton had access to meagre stores in a little cellar. He brought them a battered samovar and plates, musty bedding, and lamps with oil. For all its roughness, their situation seemed a special comfort to them, luxury after so much hardship.
There was black tea for the samovar and charcoal to burn in an iron stove at night when it grew cold, and in the mornings sunlight would lie like warm oil on their sheets.
Winterpole was upstairs writing some sort of report, though God knows how he intended to transmit it to anyone. Christopher and Chindamani were waiting for a man to arrive from the city, a monk to whom Chindamani had sent a message via the caretaker on the previous day. Tsering had originally been a trapa at Dorjela, but a few years earlier he had travelled to Urga to study at the mampa tat sang the medical college of Urga.
“Can he be trusted?” Christopher asked.
“Yes, Ka-ris To-feh, he can be trusted. More than Wan Ta-po upstairs.”
She still found the name “Winterpole’ unpronounceable.
“What is his name?”
“Tsering. Tsering Gyaltsen. There were two brothers at Dorjela, Tsering and Tsewong. Tsewong was at Dorje-la until a little time before you came.”
Christopher looked round at her. In the yard outside, yellow dust was blowing in all directions.
“I’ve heard of Tsewong before,” he said.
“At Kalimpong, in India.”
Gently, he explained to her what he knew of the circumstances of Tsewong’s death. But he did not mention the silver cross that Martin Cormac had found hidden on him.
Just as he finished, there was a knock on the door. Christopher opened it to find the caretaker waiting for him.
“The man you ask for here,” he said in stilted Tibetan.
“He ask you come outside. Not come in.”
Chindamani joined Christopher and together they stepped out of the room. In the passage, crows flew in and out through broken windows. One of the two dogs, a great fawn creature with a spotted back, ran backwards and forwards, growling aimlessly. In his palace of icons, Father Anton sang in a cracked voice, antiphonal refrains to a Palestinian virgin.
A young lama was standing awkwardly by the outer door. Dust blew in through a window and swirled around his feet. He moved from one leg to the other restlessly, unable to keep still. Tsering was narrow-faced and intellectual looking, thin and ascetic like all monks, yet honed to it by more than prayer or fasting.
Chindamani greeted him formally. He flushed and bowed deeply, then advanced and presented her with a khata scarf, which she accepted with a smile.
“I have no scarf to give you in return,” she said.
“It is enough for me to be in your presence again,” he said, keeping his head bowed.
“And I am very pleased to see you,” she replied.
“Do you have a scarf to give my friend Ka-ris To-feh? He is the son of the Dorje Lama. You must treat him with respect.”
The young man lifted his head and produced a second scarf, which he proceeded to place in Christopher’s outstretched arms.
Chindamani passed the scarf she had just been given to Christopher, and he laid it in his turn on Tsering’s wrists. The monk bowed even more deeply and remained standing, waiting for permission to move.
“Please come inside and talk with us,” said Chindamani.
“I would prefer to stay here,” Tsering said.
“Very well. Let us stay here. Have you done what I asked you to do?”
The lama nodded. His head moved on a stalk of a neck like a bird snapping for seeds. He was dressed in the usual drab weeds of a lama, but lacked the downtrodden, resigned look so many of them presented to the world. Whatever the source of his asceticism, it had little to do with disgust for life.
A yellow robe is no guarantee against humanity. The words came unbidden into Christopher’s head. Hadn’t that been what Martin Cormac said, referring to this man’s brother?
“What have you discovered?” she asked.
“First, I have something to show you, with your permission,” the monk said.
He indicated something lying on the ground a few yards from his feet. It was a small leather bag stitched roughly with cord. He picked it up and handed it to Christopher without saying a word.
He felt it in his hand, slightly spherical, somewhat uneven, and quite heavy.
“Open it,” he said. Christopher did as asked, unfastening the clumsy knots tying the neck. The leather fell away, revealing the small head of a child, the face twisted and smeared with blood.
Mercifully, the eyes were closed, but Christopher almost dropped the gruesome object in shock.
Chindamani came to Christopher’s side and looked.
“Is it Samdup?” Christopher asked, uncertain whether or not he recognized the dead face.
Chindamani shook her head.
“No,” she whispered.
“It is not Samdup.”
She turned to Tsering.
“Where did you get this?”
“The Russian general Ungern Sternberg has filled a room with heads like this. All boys of Dorje Samdup Rinpoche’s age. He knows he is here. He is looking for him.”
Christopher replaced the head in the bag and retied the cords that held it. He wondered where to put it. For a moment, he felt more absurd than horrified.
“Can you help us find him before he does?” she asked.
“I think so. One of my friends at the mampa tat sang belongs to a revolutionary club started a few years ago by a man called Sukebator. This friend confides in me because I am a Tibetan and because he thinks I hold more liberal views than most. For several days now, he has been excited about something, although he won’t say exactly what it is.
“However, he did tell me something that seemed important.
“Ungern is collecting heads,” he said.
“He’s looking for a boy, a khubilgan, but he won’t find him. The boy is safe, but Ungern won’t know until it’s too late.” He told me where the heads had been thrown, and I managed to take the one I showed you. There was no guard, they had just been thrown into the room to rot. I brought it to you as proof that my friend’s story is true.”
“What is a khubilgan?” asked Christopher.
“It’s the Mongol term for a trulka,” Tsering said. His voice had a fresh quality to it, its rhythms less stilted than those Christopher had observed in other Tibetan monks.