In one room, there were long rows of guns in glass cases: rook rifles, sniders, Remington repeaters, breech-loading pistols, carbines some purely ornamental, others quite deadly, all of them unfired. In the next was the Khutukhtu’s vast collection of mechanical inventions. There were dolls at a small piano that could play Strauss waltzes one after the other without ever tiring;
a monkey that could climb a pole and another that could spin round and round a horizontal bar; tin soldiers that marched, motor cars that rolled on painted wheels, ships that bobbed on metal seas, birds that sang and flapped their wings or hopped along branches of gold tipped with leaves of emerald all still and silent and rusting now.
Zamyatin hurried them along too quickly to see anything very clearly. They could hear loud explosions from the front of the building now, and shooting had opened up on both sides. Chindamani slipped and fell against one of the cases. At first, Christopher thought she had hurt herself. But after a few moments, she picked herself up and took Christopher’s hand. He thought she had picked up something from the case, but it was too late for him to see what its contents had been.
William kept falling behind. He was tired and sick, and running exhausted him; but he would not let Christopher pick him up and carry him. Zamyatin pushed and prodded the boy, urging him to make haste. When Christopher made to defend him, the Russian just waved his pistol at him and told him to keep going. Christopher knew the only reason Zamyatin kept him alive was the thought that he might come in useful as a bargaining counter.
They reached the last room. It was a plain room panelled in dark wood and hung with rich Tibetan tapestries. Zamyatin hustled everyone inside and shut the door.
“Where’s the way out?” he shouted.
Bodo scrambled over a pile of cushions at the rear of the room and pulled back one of the tapestries. The entrance to the tunnel had been concealed with very great skill, having been set into the panelling without any obvious join. It was opened by means of a small lever in the floor. Bodo pulled the lever and the panels slid back with a low grinding sound.
“What are you waiting for?” cried Zamyatin.
“Let’s go!”
Bodo stepped into the entrance. Chindamani stepped up, followed by the Khutukhtu and Samdup. Suddenly, there was a cry from near the main door.
“I’m not going into another tunnel! Please, father, don’t let him make me!”
It was William. The sight of the dark opening had awakened in him memories of the tunnels beneath Dorje-la. He hung back, clinging to Christopher.
“What does he say?” demanded Zamyatin.
“What’s wrong with him?” The man was growing terrified now. He was so close to victory, yet the sounds of defeat were all about him: guns, high explosives, the child whimpering.
“He says he’s frightened. He won’t go into your blasted tunnel.
You know what happened at Dorje-la. For God’s sake, let him stay here with me. He’s no danger to you.”
“And let you show Ungern straight to our exit? No-one stays. If he won’t come, I’ll shoot him here and be done with it!”
Zamyatin reached out a hand and grabbed for the boy. William struggled, twisting away from the grasping fingers. The Russian lunged and found the boy’s shoulder, but as he did so his hand slipped and struck his neck.
William screamed with pain. Zamyatin’s hand had struck the swelling, breaking the skin. The boy collapsed, falling into Christopher’s outstretched arms. Zamyatin reeled back, horror-struck.
They expected blood or poisoned matter. But there was no blood. It made no sense at first, there was just a seething, something black moving on the child’s neck. And then the blackness broke and became multiple.
The spiders had been on the verge of hatching. Now, suddenly released from the body of their host, they tumbled into the light, tiny legs unfolding and quivering across William’s neck and on to his shoulder. There were hundreds of them, each one no bigger than a very small ant.
Christopher cried out in horror and disgust. The tiny spiders were running everywhere now, masses of them, in search of food.
Chindamani ran across to Christoper and helped him brush the last of the brood from William’s neck. As though transfixed, Zamyatin stood staring at the boy. Spiders ran across his feet and vanished.
Christopher looked up at the Russian. His face was expressionless, his eyes empty of any emotion.
“He’s dead,” he whispered.
Zamyatin looked at him blankly. He did not understand.
“He’s dead,” Christopher repeated in Tibetan.
“My son is dead.”
What happened next was a blur. There was a sound of shouting outside, followed almost immediately by a crash as the door was smashed open. The two guards inside the room panicked and opened fire. Two seconds later, the barrel of a heavy pistol appeared from behind the door-jamb The guards had forgotten to take cover before firing and presented easy targets. Three shots rang out in quick succession, taking the guards and Bodo.
As that happened, Zamyatin whipped out his own pistol and waved it at the Khutukhtu, who was sitting beside Christopher alongside William’s body. Chindamani grabbed Samdup and made for a door at the rear of the room, leading into the tunnel.
The man at the door stepped across the bodies of the guards into the room. He held his pistol high, pointed at Zamyatin’s head.
It was Sepailov.
“Drop your gun, Mister Zamyatin,” he said in Russian.
“Otherwise, I will be forced to shoot.”
“One step closer,” Zamyatin replied without looking round, ‘and your Living Buddha is a dead one.”
“Be my guest.” It was a different voice this time. Von Ungern Sternberg eased himself past Sepailov into the room. He cast a quick glance at William’s body, unable to make out what lay behind the small tragedy. His men were in control of the palace.
Sukebator’s forces had pulled back to the outskirts of the city. The remaining revolutionaries had been rounded up and were already being executed or interrogated. There was just this little matter to clear up.
“The Khutukhtu is a traitor,” he went on.
“I have in my pocket a document signed by him, instructing his forces to transfer their allegiance to the revolutionary army. I have already issued instructions for his execution. You’re wasting your time, Zamyatin. Go ahead and shoot him if you want: you’ll only be doing my job for me.
Zamyatin glanced round. Ungern and Sepailov were in the room now. Only Sepailov held a gun; the baron was too much in control to feel he needed one. Zamyatin looked back at the Khutukhtu, then at Christopher. He needed another card to play, one that would force the baron to bargain. He turned and caught sight of Chindamani and Samdup at the rear door, still hesitating.
‘For God’s sake, Chindamani!” shouted Christopher.
“Get out of here! Take Samdup and run!”
“I can’t go Ka-ris To-feh, not without you. Don’t ask me to leave you.” She had the boy and she knew she ought to make a run for it. His life was at stake: it was her duty to save him. But she could not move. With William dead, Christopher needed her more than ever. Her love for him tore at her love for the boy, like a trapped beast with its claws.