Presently the smoky voice of the premier came on the line. "What is it?"
The security minister hesitated. He must do this clearly yet diplomatically, for the telephone line might have unwelcome ears.
"Speak!"
"When the old gentleman on the border lost his horse, who could know that it was not actually good fortune?" the security minister said, hoping that a Confucian epigram did not offend the premier's ears.
To his surprise, the premier responded with a Confucian epigram of his own. "The head of the cow does not fit the mouth of the horse."
The minister of state security searched his mind for a suitable rejoinder. "When one enters a place, he should follow the customs thereof," he said.
"Ah," said the premier. "I hear thunder out of a clear sky. How many follow the red hat?"
A direct question. He gave a direct answer. "One thousand, two thousand. It is difficult to know how to accommodate so many visitors under my current instructions."
There it was. Out in the open. The minister of state security waited for the reply.
"How many cameras record these events?"
"Cameras?"
"Television cameras."
"None."
"Ah," said the premier. The pause on the line was marked by the premier's slow, labored breathing. It was said that excessive tobacco smoking was the cause. Already the buzzards of the politburo were gathering about the premier, and his life was not yet spent.
"Do you remember the old proverb, 'Kill a monkey to frighten the chickens'?"
"Yes."
"I knew you would," said the premier, who then terminated the conversation.
The minister of state security listened to the buzz of the dead line for a full thirty seconds before he replaced it with a trembling hand.
Here in his office-one of the most powerful in Beijing-he would have to come to a most difficult decision.
It was one thing to arrange for a poisoning on Indian soil and cast suspicion on a rival lama. It was another to engineer the death of the Bunji Lama on Tibetan soil. If things went badly, blame would attach itself to the state security ministry. And the storm that was gathering promised to move across international borders.
No piece of paper, no whisper of conversation, could lawfully prove that the premier of China had ordered this thing to be done.
Yet it must be done, or the minister of state security would lose the support of the most powerful man in all of China-even if they whispered that he had the life expectancy of an elderly rabbit.
It was a difficult thing, this not knowing what to do.
Chapter 20
The Bunji Lama had a splitting headache as her palanquin was borne through the Gurla Pass and into the mountains. Every two or three hundred feet she called her train to a halt and went behind a rock to regurgitate the contents of her stomach.
"Look how the Bunji shows us that she understands our suffering," the followers of the Bunji Lama whispered. "She has willed herself to share our pain."
It was later so written into the scriptures, but in the early hours of the Bunji Lama's return to Tibet, her sufferings were constant. So were her complaints-although the scriptures made no mention of these things.
"Anybody got any Excedrin extrastrength?" the Bunji called out as she was helped into her palanquin, whose goldfringed roof protected her from the harsh sun and elements.
"You must overcome all suffering," Lobsang Drom cautioned.
"What's wrong with me? I can't keep down food, and my head feels like some heavy-metal moron mistook it for a bass drum."
"Altitude sickness," explained Kula, pounding his chest. "You are breathing the sacred air of the Himalayas. It is good for you."
"I feel like I'm gonna die!" Squirrelly Chicane moaned, throwing herself onto her silken cushions.
"If you die," warned Lobsang Drom, "you will only have to make this journey again in your next life."
"Don't remind me," Squirrelly said, burying her head under a mountain of pillows. "I gotta do something about this headache."
The palanquin began bumping along mountain trails again, and the procession followed, a thousand voices lifting in prayer and a thousand prayer wheels spinning and spinning.
"Om mani padme hum, " they droned.
"Tell them to stop," groaned Squirrelly.
"We cannot. They must pray to ward off the mountain demons and the Chinese."
"Who's the Bunji Lama around here-you or me? Tell them to stop."
"It is impossible," said Lobsang stubbornly
Squirrelly opened her bloodshot blue eyes and sat up. Her stomach jumped. She hadn't felt this bad since she'd crossed the mystic midlife barrier.
"For a bit player, you act like the director," she said.
"You have much to learn, O Bunji."
The face of the Tibetan looked altogether too smug, Squirrelly thought. She rummaged around in a tiny purse. Maybe there was some aspirin there. She found no aspirin, but there was a half-smoked cigarette, squeezed in a gold roach clip.
"Anybody got a light?" she asked, sticking the butt out of the palanquin.
A helpful Tibetan man trotted up and tried to light it on the run. He was using some kind of tinderbox. It took three minutes, but the cigarette began smoldering fitfully.
Squirrelly smoked her way up into the rarefied air of the roof of the world and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.
She had a first act. That was perfect, except for this altitude-sickness crap. The third act would work itself out. How hard could it be to talk the Chinese into being reasonable? They were Buddhists, too. Closet Buddhists, maybe, but Buddhists to the bone. It was in their blood.
But here she was three hours into what would have to be the second act, and so far all that was happening was a blinding headache and a lot of vomiting.
Audiences wouldn't sit still for watching Squirrelly Chicane actually throwing up in Technicolor. A little suffering went a long way, entertainment-wise.
"Maybe I'll keep the headache and cut all this vomiting."
"You must clear your body of all distractions, Bunji," Lobsang intoned.
That was another thing. She needed a male lead. So far, all she had were character-actor types. If only that yummy Remo had come along. He would have been perfect.
Maybe, Squirrelly thought, if nothing better presented itself, she would expand his part. Write him into the screenplay. Of course, there was no way he was going to be in the book. But audiences would understand if she took certain liberties in order to dramatize events.
But who the hell could play him? Richard Gere? Not intense enough. Steven Seagal? Rumor was he was a rammer. Squirrelly Chicane did not play opposite rammers. Ken Wahl had the right look, but his career had gone so far south the joke was he slept with the penguins. And Fred Ward was losing his hair, for goodness' sake.
It was, she decided as the sickly sweet smoke made her pounding head feel as big as a weather balloon, going to be a huge problem.
THERE WERE TANKS waiting for them at the bottom of the mountain. T-64s with the red star of China on their turrets.
Stony-faced soldiers in olive drab stood blocking the roads, their AK-47s held before them, spike bayonets fixed.
Squirrelly discovered this when Lobsang reached in and shook her awake.
"Bunji. The hour of reckoning has come."
"The what?" Squirrelly said dreamily.
"The climax."
"Oh, I love climaxes," Squirrelly said, turning over and crushing her face against a pillow. "Did I come?"
A strong hand reached in and pulled her out by her hair. She stood in her slippered feet, her maroon lama's cap squashed down on her head.
Squirrelly lifted the lamb's-fleece fringe off her forehead so she could see.
She saw Kula, looking grim.
"Is that any way to treat a lama?" she said.
"We will face the Chinese together."