“There’s a mural of it here in the Potala,” Reting said. “It is our Olympus, our Atlantis, our utopia. It is a kingdom ringed by impenetrable mountains, accessible only to the most holy. There, poverty, hunger, sickness, and crime are unknown. People live for a hundred years. At the center is a glittering palace where the sacred Kalachakra teachings are kept. And someday, when wickedness is rampant and the world is engulfed in catastrophic warfare, the mists that hide Shambhala will lift and its king will ride forth with his host to destroy the forces of evil and establish a new Golden Age that will last a thousand years.”
“Not entirely different from the prophecies of the Christian Bible.”
“Which were inspired, perhaps, by Shambhala, if your theories of ancient connections are correct.”
“Or Shambhala by the West. Who knows?”
“Once, in the distant past, all was one. Just as in the universe.”
“Yes. The northern legends of the Germanic people have similar echoes. So perhaps we were indeed, our people and yours, once one. And now we share symbolism.” Raeder pointed to a swastika.
“But not necessarily alliance. Tibet doesn’t want the world’s quarrels.”
“And yet the world is quarreling.”
“And what do you want for your friendship?”
“What if Shambhala is true in some way and could be found and learned from? That is what the Reichsfuhrer believes. Its secrets could ensure the security of your country and mine for a long time.”
“If any Tibetan has found Shambhala, he has not returned.”
“But my men are willing to look for you, with your guidance. We believe it exists. But we need your help to find it.”
“Shambhala exists as much as anything exists in the dream we call life,” the regent said. “But I believe the journey to it is within one’s heart as much as upon one’s legs, and to understand one’s heart is perilous indeed.”
Raeder smiled. This was the kind of Eastern nonsense that would keep these societies in the Middle Ages while the master race took control. “Then let us Germans take the risk for you.”
“You have the right consciousness?”
“We have the right will. We condition our hearts to probe the wilderness. I respect your inner journey, but Shambhala is a physical place as well. Do you know where the kingdom is supposed to lie?”
“The traditional belief is a lost valley deep in the Kunlun Mountains at the head of a disappearing river, far from every trade route and habitation. There, the voices of the dead inhabit the wind. Difficult to find and, by reputation, dangerous to penetrate. There are impossible gorges and impossible mountains.”
“Impossible until it is done.”
The young regent considered his visitors. He’d heard a hundred stories. Tibet’s past was a fog of history and myth, a fog one could get lost in-but a fog rising from a lake of truth. These Europeans had no idea of the hazards ahead, or the terrible things they might discover. “You think you can do this when we have not?”
“Only with your help and permission. As you said, we explore the world when perhaps we should be exploring our souls. But we are very good at exploring the world.”
“And if you found what you are looking for?”
“We would share what we found.” The Germans nodded.
Reting looked into the shadows of the room. There, on shelves, were stacked thousands of holy books, peche, unbound leaves wrapped in cloth and tied with wooden end pieces, dating back centuries beyond counting. The books were enigmatic, but had many clues. One remarkable young nun had been compiling those clues. She’d met Westerners before, and had prophesized this moment. She’d warned that modern Tibet must rediscover Shambhala before foreigners did, or ensure that it could never be found.
Her perspective had been poisoned, Reting knew. There were rumors upon rumors about Keyuri Lin.
Still, he and she had made their plans.
The Reting’s visitors were tough, restless men, obsessed with the longings the Buddha taught should be escaped. But here they were in the Potala, which they’d been forbidden to approach. Where else might they reach? What if they could give Tibet real power in a dangerous world?
“Perhaps we can make a partnership,” he said, watching the Germans.
The Westerners’ eyes lit with ambition and greed. “The world’s crisis is growing darker,” Raeder said. “Time is of the essence. Do you have any trucks or cars that would speed part of the journey to the Kunlun?”
The regent smiled. “The British do. Ask them.” Let the Europeans quarrel among themselves. He wasn’t going to risk his own motorcar, shipped in pieces on animal backs and reassembled in Lhasa so he could drive on the palace parade ground. So he’d heed Keyuri and work with these interlopers to either retrieve rumored secrets or get rid of the Germans entirely. The woman had counseled that perhaps they could do both-this odd woman who studied things that were rightly the province of men.
The Germans shifted. “The English will not help us,” Raeder said. “We fought a war with them a generation ago.”
Reting shrugged. “We have a scholar, a most unusual nun of most unusual curiosity, who has studied the Shambhala legend more than any monk. Does your culture allow you to work with a woman as a guide?”
“Of course,” Raeder said, not admitting that he agreed with the Nazis that a woman’s best duty was raising children. “European nations have been ruled by queens as well as kings.” The Germans glanced at each other. This seeming cooperation was more than they’d hoped, and they were both elated and wary.
Reting clapped his hands, once, and monks bowed and disappeared in the shadows. A short time later, they led a young woman into the reception area. Her head was cropped as short as a boot camp recruit in the fashion of both monks and nuns, but she was quite pretty, her features fine, her lashes long. She advanced with eyes low, a sheaf of papers and maps in her hand.
“Keyuri Lin will give you what guidance we can,” the Reting said.
Raeder started. His companions looked at him curiously, but he had eyes only for this female scholar, his face suddenly pale. She lifted her head.
It was the woman Benjamin Hood had taken from him.
Each waited for the other to shout warning, but neither did.
17
The air over western China
September 9, 1938
T he Corsair biplane had two cockpits. Hood would sit in front of Beth Calloway as she piloted, in a basket about as comfortable as a barreclass="underline" a metal seat, hard ribs, and welded flange to hang on to behind a snarling engine. It was 1,400 miles to Lhasa, and each one was going to be bumpy, cold, and noisy.
“We’ll fly close to the ground at first and put down if we spot any Japanese,” she said. “Then we’ll follow the Yangtze to Chongqing and break due west for Chengdu. After that, it’s mountains, mountains, mountains.”
“How high can this crate fly?” Its mustard yellow was spattered with mud from rough landings.
“More than eighteen thousand feet if we stay light. That’s high enough to clear any passes. Beyond that, you have to hike.”
“Just get me to Lhasa at twelve thousand. If I can reach the authorities fast enough, I can do what I’m supposed to do, I hope.”
She looked him over: jaunty Filson bush hat that would blow off if he didn’t put it away, oil cloth packer coat, a. 45 automatic that would identify him as an American, a bandolier of rifle and shotgun shells like some Mexican bandit, and high-lace mountaineering boots shiny with waterproof wax. All he lacked was a merit badge. In the humid heat, he was sweating. She pointed skeptically. “What’s that?”
He was shouldering his sling canvas duffel, fat as a sailor’s and long enough to stuff a body. He swung it off for presentation. “My gear. Where does it go?”
“It doesn’t. Not with us.”
“I’m going to need this in Tibet.”
Calloway swung open the door of a compartment behind her own seat. “You’re not getting to Tibet unless we carry these.” Three petrol canisters took up most of the space. “The Corsair’s maximum range is less than seven hundred miles. We’ve got two refueling spots, but we’ll have to put down and top off with these on the leg to Lhasa.”