"These words gladden my heart. For I am the last Dalai Lama. It has so been prophesied. After me there will be no more, and my people are beside themselves at the prospect. But now that the Bunji has returned, hope will spring anew. Perhaps in two or even three decades, Tibet will breathe the sweet air of freedom once more."
Squirrelly squinted under her fleece-lined lama's cap. "Two or three decades? I figure it'll take two or three weeks."
"Weeks?"
"Sure," Squirrelly said, ticking off her plans on her saffron-nailed fingers. "Two or three weeks to liberate Tibet. Maybe another week or so for a goodwill tour of the major villages. Six months to write the book. And three to film."
"Film?"
Squirrelly flung her arms wide as if to encompass the entire world. "Won't this make a great movie? Internationally famous American actress plucked from cosmic obscurity to liberate a downtrodden people. Talk about high concept!"
"I fail to follow your thinking, Bunji Rinpoche."
"Oh, I love it when people call me that. Listen, you have a really photogenic face. Wanna play yourself?"
"Play?"
"I may end up doing Lamb of Light as a musical, though. Like Evita. How good are your pipes?"
"But you are the Bunji. It is your destiny to rule Tibet-if the Chinese do not assassinate you first."
"They already tried that," Squirrelly said dismissively. "Now that I have the First Lady on my side, I'm protected. If anything happens to me, she'd have them nuked."
"You would not encourage a nuclear attack on China?"
"Not me. By that time I'll be well into my next life and as long as I didn't come back as a Chinese citizen, I probably wouldn't care."
A knock came at the door. The Dalai Lama perked up.
"Ah, it is dinner. We will eat and talk more. Enter."
Servants entered, bearing fragrant foods on silver trays.
Kula and Lobsang hovered nearby.
Squirrelly tasted the air. "Smells scrumptious. What is all this stuff?"
"That is tsampa."
"Looks like Maypo. What about this soup?"
"That is thukpa-noodle soup. Very tasty."
"Tibetan pasta? I love it!"
"Do not eat yet."
"Why not? Do we say some kind of Buddhist grace first?"
"We must await the food taster."
"Food taster?"
"It is a precaution in case of poison."
"Who would try to poison you? You're so sweet."
"You," said the Dalai Lama without rancor.
"Hey, give a gal a break. I'm a fellow Buddhist, after all."
The food taster came in, bowed to each of them, and, under the watchful eyes of Lobsang Drom, Kula and the Dalai Lama's retinue, and the horrified eyes of Squirrelly Chicane, lifted each bowl in turn and slurped up generous portions.
"Don't you feed this guy?" Squirrelly asked.
"He is kept in a state of perpetual famishment," the Dalai Lama explained, "so that he will not balk at the task before him."
After he had tasted everything, the food taster sat down and everyone looked expectant.
Squirrelly squinted at him. "What are we waiting for, this poor guy to die?"
"Yes," said Kula.
"Oh. How long does that usually take?"
"If the food has cooled and he still breathes, the food is unpoisoned."
"Oooh, I hate cold food."
"As the Bunji Lama, it is your sacred duty to renounce the temptations of the material world," Lobsang intoned.
"Hot food isn't a temptation, but a necessity," said Squirrelly, dipping a surreptitious finger into her tsampa. Maybe she could sneak a taste while everybody was waiting for the food taster to keel over.
Squirrelly had her tsampa-smeared finger tucked up under her chin and was about to go for it when the food taster turned a sickly green and keeled left. He began breathing in a labored fashion. This lasted not very long at all. Just until the death rattle.
After the color left his face for the last time, the others grew stony of visage. The retinue of the Dalai Lama glared at Lobsang and Kula, who glowered back. Kula fingered his dagger.
Squirrelly swallowed hard. "The food's poisoned, huh?"
"Yes," said Lobsang. "But whose food? The Bunji's or the Dalai's?"
The glaring and glowering resumed.
"Tell you what," offered Squirrelly, wiping her forefinger on the cushion, "why don't we just throw it all out and start over? I make a mean seven-bean salad."
"I will fetch the cook," said Kula, storming from the room.
The cook was fetched. He was a plump little Tibetan with a face like unbaked cookie dough. He trembled like a human pudding in a steady wind.
"Why did you poison the food, cook?" Kula demanded.
"I did not."
Kula brought his silver dagger up to the cook's throbbing jugular. "You lie! I slit the throats of liars."
"I did not poison the food! It was the Chinese man."
"What Chinese man?"
"He told me that my sister in Lhasa would be violated if I did not look the other way while he put something in the food."
"Whose food? The Bunji's or the Dalai's?"
"The Bunji's."
"You are certain?"
"I would not lie, Mongol," quavered the cook. "For I know you would slit my throat if I did this."
"Good. It is good that you told the truth," said Kula, abruptly yanking the cook's head around to slice his throat open.
"Why did you do that?" Squirrelly cried, turning away.
"I also slit the throats of traitors," said Kula, wiping his blade clean on the dead man's hair.
Squirrelly stared at the dead cook a long time. Then it hit her.
"They tried to kill me," she said in a dull, shocked voice.
"Yes," said Kula.
"We must find the compassion to forgive them," intoned the Dalai Lama.
"They tried to kill me again. Even with the First Lady on my side." Her voice was smoldering now.
"The Chinese are in truth demons," said Lobsang. "Demons without souls."
"Take your anger and transmute it into understanding," intoned the Dalai Lama. "Use your newfound understanding to bring about true harmony. Illuminate the Universe with your light."
Squirrelly Chicane rose from her cushion, her blue eyes stark. Lifting a trembling fist to the ceiling, she said, "This means war!"
"War is not the way of Buddha," the Dalai Lama said anxiously. "It is unworthy of one who is in truth a Living Buddha!'
"Well, war is the way of this Buddha!" Squirrelly vowed. "We're going to march in there and kick their yellow butts all the way back to Beijing!"
The Dalai bowed his head in sorrow.
"She is a fighting Buddhist, after all," Kula said in an emotion-choked voice. "It is better than I dared hope for."
Chapter 18
It was the end of the month and time to pay the bills that had piled up on Dr. Harold W Smith's Spartan desk.
The Folcroft bills were in the low five figures. It was possible to dispose of them with only a cursory glance at the various invoices, bills and utility notices.
That done, he took a deep breath and two Alka-Seltzer washed down by spring water from his office dispenser before looking into the CURE-related bills.
These-principally credit-card bills and other incidentals-were sent to a blind post-office box to which only Smith had the key. It was not an ideal situation, but he could not trust Remo, and certainly not Chiun, to remember to pay their own bills on time.
And regardless of how high these bills were, Harold W. Smith always paid them promptly. It rankled his frugal New England soul to spend taxpayer dollars on what often seemed frivolous items, such as Remo's quarterly car trade-in. But in the end it was a small price to pay to keep Remo and Chiun, if not happy, at least not disposed to complain often.
And he never, ever paid credit-card interest. Not in the days when it was a modest six percent and certainly not now that the credit-card companies had begun charging usurious interest rates.