Beautiful Ghosts (58 page)

“I should have had him followed,” Tan said as they stepped back to his car. “Ming.” He offered no apology as he released the manacles from Shan’s wrist. “He’s safe by now, out of Lhadrung. People will protect him.”

Shan looked across the valley. “No,” he said. “Ming’s not gone. He doesn’t know Dolan is dead.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning he thinks he is still in a race with Dolan, to take as much of their bounty from Lhadrung as possible. He’s worried Dolan will get more than he does. He wants to leave Lhadrung, but his greed will be greater than his fear.”

“Meaning what?” Tan asked again, as he settled into the backseat, his aide at the wheel.

Shan slid in beside him. “Meaning I have to go to the town square.”

*   *   *

A quarter hour later, Shan climbed out in the alley beside the government center. Tashi was in the shadows at the back of the square. “I need to know what Ming did, when you told him those words, and returned in the helicopter.” Shan said.

“Like you said, I told him Dolan knew about the Mountain Buddha and was planning to take it back with him, that he had changed his mind and wanted everything back. Ming asked where he could get a truck and some strong men. Then he got in his car, with that Lu, and drove south.”

“South? There is nothing south.”

“South,” Tashi repeated.

Shan gazed down the street that led south in silence, then jogged back to Tan’s waiting car. He explained what he and Yao had discovered about Ming’s use of forgeries as they drove, speaking until the aide eased the car to a stop in the shadow of the wall around the abandoned brick factory.

They stayed in the shadows, crouching as they ran past the silver car, silently entering the open door. Lu was busy at a crate as they entered the loading dock of the main building, pasting a label over another label. “You can’t just—” he snarled as he looked up, reaching for the pistol in his belt.

There was no sound, no warning. Tan’s hand flew up, slamming the back of his own pistol against the side of Lu’s head. Lu collapsed onto the crate. Inside the cavernous main hall of the building Ming had his back to them, standing with a clipboard in front of over twenty crates, some open, showing shredded paper as packing material, while a small black box played Western rock music.

Tan turned off the music. “Croft Arts and Crafts,” he read loudly from the freshly pasted label on the nearest create. “Shanghai.”

Ming spun about, eyes flaring.

“No doubt a contractor for the museum,” Tan said.

“Of course. Restoration specialists,” Ming said uneasily, searching the shadows behind Tan.

Tan shrugged. “Shouldn’t be hard to verify.”

“You have no authority,” Ming spat.

“Perhaps you forget that this county is under martial law. You may be surprised at how much authority that gives me. I can send you to reeducation camp for a year or two without having to consult with anyone.”

“Authority perhaps, in this forgotten backwater. Real power, no. Try it and I’ll ruin you. People in Beijing will learn about it.”

“By the time they do I will have had time to verify things.”

“Things?”

“The statement by Mr. Dolan that you switched priceless artifacts in the museum for forgeries,” Tan lied. “Your business arrangements with William Lodi. What do you suppose the Chairman will do when he hears you stole the Qian Long frescoes, then lied to him about a letter implicating Lhadrung? He’ll have to make an example out of you. The fresco was in the public eye. You were a trusted public servant. The Chairman was embarrassed diplomatically.”

Ming glanced at the door.

Tan looked at his watch. “If you hurry you can catch the evening flight to Beijing.”

Ming took a step forward, stopped, obviously confused.

“You’re free to go,” Tan said. “But you’ll only get this offer once. Tell me where the Qian Long fresco is, and I guarantee you will not be executed. Prison, for many years. But no bullet in the head.”

Ming returned Tan’s stare, then looked at his clipboard as if returning to his business. “I never killed anyone,” he said in a distant voice. “No one was supposed to die. That was Dolan. It was all Dolan.”

Shan stepped to a long, narrow crate. Inside, a slab of plaster was wrapped in bubble wrap, supported by wooden slats. He pulled at the plastic, revealing a richly painted chain of lotus flowers along the top of a thick piece of plaster infused with horse hairs. The fresco taken from Zhoka.

“I’m not going to surrender to that bastard Yao,” Ming said.

“You don’t have to. Just know that it was Yao and Shan who stopped you.”

Ming’s hollow gaze settled on Shan a moment. “You’re just one of the homeless convicts,” he said. “Nobody.”

“What did you do with Surya at the gompa, Ming?” Shan demanded. “After you told him you were an abbot you did something else. You crushed him. You made him think his life was a waste.”

Ming fixed Shan with a thin smile. “I had my computer with me. The old fool had never seen one. I told him I could create wonderful works with the motion of a finger. I opened the computer and called up the program I have that reproduces famous paintings, creating a painting with each tap of my finger. He was terrified. He cried. But when I left the old fool kissed my hand.”

And that night, Shan knew, was when Surya had destroyed his own art, had decided his life had been a sham. Because an arrogant stranger from Beijing had tricked him with a computer.

Ming turned back to Tan. “Dolan’s insane, you know. People ignore it, because he’s so rich. Like some of the old emperors.” He stepped to the crate with the fresco, fingering a long piece of tape that extended from the top, then abruptly stepped to the crate with the papers, extracted a clean sheet, and began writing. “The emperor’s fresco is in a shipping container full of computers. Agent Corbett will have to help. It was scheduled to arrive in Oregon yesterday.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

The guest compound was overflowing with strangers by the time Shan and the colonel arrived. Two ambulance trucks were parked by the gate, one with its lights flashing, a dozen utility vehicles nearby. Reporters had arrived from Lhasa, an officer reported to Tan, the U.S. embassy had called with inquiries about Dolan’s accident, and three generals had left messages.

Dolan’s body lay wrapped in canvas on a table by the fountain. Several men were photographing it as one of Ming’s assistants was being interviewed in front of a television camera with the table in the background.

Tan escorted Shan to a shed on the far side of the compound, where a soldier stood guard. “Public Security comes for him tomorrow,” the colonel reminded Shan. “We’ll have to take him to the brig,” he added, referring to the military jail at the army base near the 404th camp. They had already deposited Ming and Lu there, under heavy guard, after taking their complete statements. “This afternoon.” The colonel fixed Shan with a steady, impassive gaze. “They say he wasn’t any trouble,” he added, then wheeled about and marched away. Tan was saying this was the end, that Shan would have to say good-bye to his son now.

Shan stared at the closed door a long time, trying to find words. The guard finally muttered something, then turned and shoved the door open. Ko sat on the dirt floor, his hand freshly bandaged, his outstretched legs straddling a familiar bag.

Ko looked up, his face empty. “Lokesh said you would need this,” he said, and pushed the bag toward Shan. It was his retreat bag. They stared at it in silence for what seemed like a long time.

“When we were in the gorge,” Ko suddenly said, “wrapping her body in the shroud, Lokesh told me something. He said don’t mourn her death, mourn that she had only just begun to know herself. He said of all the mysteries in life, the greatest is that of finding our own deities.”

Shan saw that his son was holding something in his good hand, a long canister of lacquered bamboo. “I had wrapped it in the blanket,” he said as he lowered himself to the ground. “But I never thought it would…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Ko leaned over and dropped the canister in front of him. “They have been in our family for five generations,” Shan said. “You are the sixth.” He pushed the canister back to his son.

Ko stared at it a long time before taking the canister in his hand again. He held it differently this time, more gingerly, even awkwardly, bracing it with his bandaged hand as he turned it, studying the faded ideograms on it before he opened the top and looked inside.

“There are sixty-four of them,” Shan said, as Ko pulled the lacquered sticks from inside.

“Prayer sticks, Lokesh called them. Like beads, I guess.”

“They were your great-grandfather’s, his father’s before. You use them to find verses.”

“Verses?” Ko asked.

For a moment time stopped. Shan forgot the guard outside, forgot that a squad would soon come to take Ko away, perhaps forever. His son was asking about the Taoist verses.

“Is it funny?” he heard Ko ask, and Shan realized he was grinning. Shan shook his head, still smiling, unable to speak.

Ko gazed at the sticks. “Show me, father,” he asked in a near whisper.

Shan tossed the sticks, dividing them into piles, letting Ko count as he explained the ages-old process. He repeated several verses, Ko joining him as he grasped their rhythm, his gaze always on the sticks. Finally his son slowly replaced the sticks in the canister, staring at it with something Shan had never seen on his face. Calmness. “I am the sixth,” he said. “The son of the master criminal Shan Tao Yun,” he added with a tiny grin. He closed the canister and handed it back to Shan. “They’ll take it from me. They will destroy it, or sell it. Keep it for me.”

Shan nodded solemnly, then reached into his pocket and handed him a shiny, bluish pebble. “Lokesh spent most of his life in prison,” he explained. “When he was released a few months before me, he gave this to me, said he had had it all those years, that it was a protector charm of great power.” Ko accepted the pebble from Shan. “He said rubbing it kept him connected with the rest of the world, the important things in the world.”

Ko pushed the stone deep into his pocket. “Once or twice a year they let mail inside,” he said. “Sometimes they let us send letters.”

Shan struggled to keep his own voice calm. “I’ll send letters. I’ll try to find an address where you can write me.”

The door opened and two soldiers entered, one holding a pair of heavy leg manacles. Ko stood as the chains were fastened to his ankles. “We made justice,” he said in a voice suddenly proud. “When no one else could.” The soldiers pulled him toward the door.

“Stay alive!” Shan said in a hoarse voice. “You know how to stay alive.”

Ko replied with a defiant grin as the soldiers led him away.

Shan stayed in the shed for several minutes, staring at the canister in his hand, then packing it into the bag for his retreat.

“Someone came from the hills about the McDowell woman’s body,” Tan said, when Shan found him outside the gate. The ambulance with the flashing lights was gone. Dolan’s body was gone. “She asked if she could use a phone to call England.”

*   *   *

When the helicopter landed at the old stone tower the next morning, Lokesh and Jara were waiting with a heavy blanket to transport Punji McDowell’s remains. They nodded silently to Shan and Liya as they climbed out, and looked with surprise as Corbett followed, picking up a corner of the blanket. Shan had gone to the little conference room the afternoon before to find Liya on the phone, tears streaming down her cheeks, trying to speak with Punji’s mother in broken English. He had taken the phone from her and sat, translating between the two women for half an hour. Corbett had used the same phone an hour later, Shan at his side, as he spoke first with Bailey, then several others in America, arguing with some, then, after confirming that the emperor’s fresco had been recovered, agreeing to sign a statement attesting to Dolan’s heroic accidental death.

Over fifty Tibetans stood in solemn silence as they entered the courtyard with the white chorten shrine. Shan saw faces he had seen at the village, most of the Yerpa monks, many of the hill people who had gathered for the festival at the chorten, even half a dozen of the ragyapa, the old blind woman among them.

The monks took over as Shan and his friends set Punji McDowell’s body by the large pyre of stacked timbers from the ruins, arranging her body by that of Brother Bertram. Another shroud lay beside that of the abbot. On the outside of his folded letter Yao had scribbled a last wish. Let me stay at Zhoka, he had asked.

Butter offerings in the shape of the sacred symbols were set around the pyre, and as Gendun began a mantra which the other Tibetans quickly joined, the monks lit these first. It did not take long for the brittle wood to ignite, and soon the flames became so hot no one could stand closer than thirty feet. The flames leapt high, and the wind died, so that the smoke rose straight into the cloudless sky.

“I don’t understand,” Corbett said after they had watched in silence for a quarter hour. “I thought the dead were all taken to the birds.”

“Not in the old times,” Shan said. “For saints and great teachers, this was the tradition.” There had been another body that no one had spoken about, except a quiet whisper from Liya. Khan had been taken to the charnel ground.

It was over in less than an hour, the pyre reduced to ashes. Liya called for everyone to join her in the foregate yard, where food had been set out on blankets. Shan saw a familiar face nearby.

“Give you joy,” Shan said in English. Fiona was roasting crabapples on a little brazier.

“Give you joy,” Fiona replied. “My niece has been with the monks,” she added in Tibetan.

Her great-niece, Shan thought, as he turned and saw Dawa standing by Gendun. But there was a stranger with Dawa, a sturdy woman to whose arm the girl clung, and beside the woman was a man whose clear, honest face looked weary from travel. Dawa’s parents had arrived.

“They are going to stay,” Fiona said. “They are going to help me rebuild the kiln. We are going to make pots and tsa-tsa, like the old days, tsa-tsa for everyone in the hills.”