He sank back down on her back. Before long the sky around them turned golden, then orange, then red, setting the mountain off in an almost surreal glow. The miles passed with the litany of yi, ar, throb, throb.
Just as the sky turned black, Li carried Neal through the gates of a monastery. Neal recognized the statue of Kuan Yin, Goddess of Mercy, before Li collapsed in exhaustion.
Neal lay on his kang later that night. The monks had wrapped his rib cage in a cloth boiled in an herbal mixture. They had forced some noxious, hot liquid down his throat that eased the pain. Then they had stretched a coarse net over the top of the bed and left him to get some rest.
What’s the net for? Neal wondered. We have to be at least nine thousand feet up here, well above the mosquitoes. Besides, the net was too coarse to keep out anything but a mutant giant mosquito. What was it for? He had his answer a few seconds later, when he heard the scurrying of paws across the floor. He looked down to see at least eight pairs of red eyes studying him.
Rats.
They were all over the place, scratching at his discarded shoes, sniffing at the edge of the kang, scavenging for food. Neal huddled up in his clothing, trying to cover up every bit of his person he possibly could. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the thought of a rat nibbling at his foot kept him awake. Just then a rat ran straight across the top of the net over Neal’s chest. Neal heaved himself up and screamed. His chest responded with a stab of fire that put Neal back in a prone position. It was probably just his imagination, but he thought he saw the rat grin at him. The rat chattered busily. Neal figured that the rodent was telling his buddies they had a helpless victim here.
Bandit monkeys, marauding rats… It’s a good thing there aren’t any wolves or tigers left on this damn mountain-or are there? He entertained himself with visions of tigers and wolves creeping stealthily up the stairway. Well, at least they’d scare off the rats. He finally dozed off to that pleasant fantasy.
He screamed as he felt the tiny claws scrape his chest.
“It is just me,” Li Lan said as she climbed into bed.
“Don’t let the rats in.”
She snuggled against him carefully.
After a few moments she said, “The climb tomorrow is difficult and treacherous. You cannot go on, I think.”
“I have to see Pendleton.”
She thought for a moment.
“I can bring him down here in two days.”
“We don’t have two days, Lan. I’ll be caught by tomorrow morning.”
As soon as Li settled in, the rats became active again. Neal listened to the scraping sounds of their claws on the wooden floor.
“Don’t the rats bother you?”
“This is why we use the nets.”
“Why not traps?”
“Killing is wrong.”
Killing is wrong. Neal tried to tally the number of people who had been killed to bring Pendleton to the top of this mountain. Jesus, had it only been two? The Doorman and Leather Boy One? Only two? What am I thinking about? Two are enough. More than enough. And we ain’t home yet.
“We must leave as soon as it is light,” Li said.
Good, Neal thought. She’s accepted that I’m going with her.
“Sure,” he said.
“Sleep now.”
“Okay.”
She stroked his chest. “I would like to do more than sleep, but you are wounded.”
“Well, maybe if you were real gentle with me…”
“Oh, I can be very gentle.”
She was, Neal thought later, remarkably gentle.
“Li Lan,” he said, “when I go down the mountain… on the other side… will you go with me?
She took a long time to answer.
“Tomorrow,” she said, her voice edged with excitement, “we will look into Buddha’s Mirror, see our true selves. Then we will know everything.”
He wanted to talk about it more, but she made a show of being sleepy. Her breathing deepened and steadied, and soon she was sleeping.
Neal listened to the clawing of the rats before finally willing himself to sleep. Dawn would come all too soon.
20
Xao Xiyang stepped out from the modest pavilion at the top of the promontory and waited for the sun to rise. The air was so clear, so lovely, so peaceful that he almost did not wish to light the cigarette in his hand. The long climb and the pure mountain air had cleared his lungs, and the serene panorama almost inspired him to begin a more healthy regimen. The Yi guide had put him to shame, but of course he was much younger, and a native. Xao accepted the rationalization and lit the cigarette.
So… soon he would see his true nature. A dangerous undertaking, considering what he was about to do. He was by no means certain he wanted even a glimpse at his own soul. He leaned over the low railing and sneaked a peek at the mists below. He saw no mirror; it looked like a bowl full of clouds, that was all. But hadn’t the Yi guide assured him that the Buddha’s Mirror appeared every day at dawn and dusk? Superstitions, he thought. They will hold us back.
He felt the quiet presence of his driver behind him. If I am tired, he thought, this good soldier must be exhausted, having raced all the way around to the west side of the mountain and then climbed the treacherous western trail. A true soldier, a good man who should not fear seeing his own soul.
“Is the American with you?” he asked.
“Yes, Comrade Secretary.”
“Good. He is well?”
“He is breathing somewhat heavily.”
“We do not all enjoy your sturdy constitution.”
He offered the driver a cigarette, which the man accepted.
“I take it, then,” Xao said, “that young Mr. Carey took the bait.”
“You have seen the fish in the pool at Dwaizhou?”
“Yes.”
“Like that.”
“Ah.”
Xao considered his contradictory emotions: satisfaction that the plan was working, sadness that the plan had to work to its unrelenting end. The duality of nature-that a great good was always coupled with a great evil, a wonderful gift with a tragic sacrifice. Perhaps the Buddha’s Mirror will show me two faces.
“When do you think they will arrive?” Xao asked.
“For the sunset.”
So it will be sad and beautiful, Xao thought. Appropriate.
“Have him ready,” Xao ordered.
He could sense the driver’s unease.
“Yes?” Xao asked. “Speak up, we are all socialist comrades.”
“Are you certain, Comrade Secretary, that you want to… complete the operation? There are alternatives.”
“You have become fond of him.”
There was no answer.
Xao said, “There are alternatives, but they are risky. Risks are unacceptable when so much is at stake. Our personal feelings cannot matter.”
“Yes, Comrade Secretary.”
“You must be hungry.”
“I am fine.”
“Go eat.”
“Yes, Comrade Secretary.”
The driver stepped away. Xao watched the sun rise over the Sichuan basin. He knew what the driver had been hinting at-there was no operational reason for Xao to be here at all.
True, he thought, but there is a personal one. A moral reason. When one orders the death of an innocent, one must have the character to watch it.
Xao peered into the mists below him to search for his soul.
Simms was just goddamn miserable. He had spent the night in a damp, dirty, rat-infested Buddhist Disneyland, had to squat over an open trench to take a dump, and now he was standing in the cold fog, trying to choke down a bowl of rice gruel, waiting for the sun to rise so he could climb a few thousand more steps.
He yearned for the comforts of the Peak: a decent meal, a good bottle of bourbon, a young lady wrapped in silk. The thought of spending the rest of his life in the PRC made his stomach turn more than the rice gruel did. It was so dull here, so frigging monotonous, so spartan.