I put my feet on the top of the dashboard to ease the muscles, head was all right, wasn't throbbing so much now in spite of the bouncing around. A crack had started in the windshield; this wasn't shatterproof glass. The whole truck was taking a beating and that couldn't last for ever, perhaps not even for fifty kilometres.
'What are the chances,' I asked Chong, 'of finding somewhere for him between here and the airport?' He knew the region better than I did, and I could be missing something.
He turned to look at me. 'We don't have any. We don't have any chances. Go south with him on board, we're just putting him into their hands.'
'North then,' I said, 'within fifty kilometres, what have we got?'
'Few farms. Few more monasteries, up in the hills. Yak herds, nomad camps, couple of mining sites.'
'They'll check all those. The military.'
'Bet your ass they will. They got choppers, go where they like, put troops down and beat the bushes.' A front wheel hit a rock and something smashed, I think a headlamp.
'Shit.'
I asked him if there were caves.
'Caves? You bet. Few hundred.'
'How big?'
He half-turned on the seat, interested. 'All sizes, I guess, but there'd be plenty with enough room for just two people, no crowding, you know? Some of them big as a ballroom. Sure, you could do that for a couple of days, maybe more if you had to.'
I thought about it. The objective for Bamboo was to fly Xingyu Baibing into Beijing, assuming the coordinator replacing Sojourner had managed to take over without any delay. But we couldn't do that now. All we could do was keep him from being flushed out and sent to Beijing and brainwashed and pushed in front of the cameras, the return of the prodigal son, penitent, reformed, an example to others who thought fit to impede the onward struggle for socialism.
'That's the plan?'
Chong was watching me, taking snatched glances away from the moonlit rocks ahead.
'There's nothing else,' I said, 'we can do.'
'Okay. Have to do it tonight, use the dark. That sun comes up, we're going to see a sky full of choppers looking for that fucking sergeant.'
That had been an hour ago, and now he was waiting outside the monastery with the truck. It didn't need two of us to fetch Xingyu Baibing.
Thugs rje hdul dang dbang…
I crossed the earth floor and climbed the ladder. If there had been movement, if it hadn't been an errant flicker of hallucination, I would find out what it was at close range. The first ladder had a tilt to the left, and I put my feet on the other side, testing the rungs. This was the ladder the monks used, Bian the guard and his replacement; they brought water from the reservoir, and food, and changed the sanitary bucket. It was a good strong ladder, and the tilt didn't worry me. It was something else that worried me.
I stopped climbing and let the data come in, the chanting and the bells and the moonlight and the scent of the incense and the lamps, the feel of the rough wood under my hands, while the primitive brainstem signalled the nerves, opening the pupils by a degree, stimulating the olfactory sensors, turning the tympanic membranes to sweep the environment for unfamiliar sounds, sensitizing the tactile nodes of the fingers and palm, returning me to the ancient status of the animal in the wild seeking the means for survival, the skin crawling now and the hairs lifting on the scalp because of the scent I'd detected, strange and sweet and unfamiliar here, perhaps dangerous.
I couldn't identify it, couldn't find the key, the association with other things, other environments where I'd smelted this scent before. I waited, standing still on the ladder, and let the mind range on its own, taking slow breaths to present the stimulus. Nothing came. Nothing came and I climbed again, watching the long gallery on the second floor, watching the gap where the timbers had fallen during the fire, watching for movement.
Ldna na… Dpal ldan mgon po…
My boot scraped a splinter from a rung of the ladder and I heard it fall, because it was silent here in this huge derelict place, with a silence beyond the chanting and the bells and the creak of the beams as the cold contracted them, a silence in which all I could consciously hear were unfamiliar, unexpected sounds, the animal brainstem tuned to them, and this was good, this was as it should be, the senses taut, alert beyond the norm; but I was not reassured. There was still something else, other than the strange sweet unfamiliar scent, that was causing the gooseflesh, lifting the hair on the scalp.
Screech of a night bird somewhere and I felt the sweat springing, saw lights for an instant leaping against the dark as the nerves were fired.
I stopped moving, absorbed the shock, climbed again. Still something else, but I was beginning to know that its source wasn't physical, sensory. Information was shimmering at a level of awareness beyond the conscious, as subtle as the trembling of a web, and it was bringing fear into my spirit, bringing desolation.
But let us not, my good friend, lend ourselves overmuch to the imagination: the organism is under stress, and prey to fancy. Let us rather climb to the gallery and find things out.
You know it's true. It's not just your imagination.
Yes, but what can I do about it, for God's sake?
The ladder gave a little when I reached the top; one of the rawhide straps had worked loose, but no matter, I was safe enough, I was on the gallery and this was where the movement was, the one I had seen from below. It was a colored rag, hanging across a strut of timber and moving very slightly in a draft of air; it must have dropped from the floor above, and caught across the rough woodwork. I hadn't noticed it the first time I'd come; perhaps it hadn't been there.
Po spyan hdren na a…
Faint now, the voices below, the muted tinkling of the bells. What were they praying for down there where the great gold Buddha sat with his fat stomach and his enigmatic smile? For peace on earth and goodwill to all men? For a brave new China and the blessings of democracy? For the sergeant down there across the trackless wastes, or perhaps for Dr Xingyu Baibing, the new messiah? Let them pray for him, above all pray for him.
Screech of that bloody bird, enough to scare the wits out of you as they say, I suppose it was one of those that wheeled and dived across the burial site that Chong had spoken of, as I'd seen them doing in Bombay, and there's a euphemism for you, sky-burial, a pretty thought but what it means when you get down to it is that you leave your dear ones out there under the sky and those bloody birds come down and pick at them, taking chunks of flesh in their great hooked beaks and flying off with them, plundering the dead I would rather call it, the flesh tearing under the talons — nor is it the time, though, to be morbid, no, I take your point, standing here on the gallery with the sweat seeping along the skin and the hackles raised and the fear of Christ in me because of that strange smell and the intelligence that informed my spirit that something had gone wrong here in the monastery tonight, horribly wrong.
Chapter 20: Dawn
'The subject has been seized.'
I waited, giving him time.
In a moment: 'Is he still alive?'
'I don't know. They killed the monk on guard.'
Waited again. Pepperidge would want to put the questions in order of their priority and I left it to him. He'd have to signal London as soon as I'd rung off, and they'd want the precise facts. The mission had crashed and I didn't know what they would do, put another one together with a standby executive, fly people in from Hong Kong, call out everyone they'd got in Lhasa, sleepers, supports, agents-in-place, God only knew what they would do, if there was anything they could do at all.