Blood of the Reich (42 page)

“Gear up, Mary Poppins,” Jake said.

Once more, the ever-surprising Mr. Barrow seemed to have a good idea of what he was doing. They each took two coils of line, heavy but reassuring, and a hammer with some spikes Jake called pitons. “We’ll string a rope across the worst pitches. It’s mostly a scramble across rubble. Won’t be too bad.”

And it wasn’t, at first. The three of them ascended alongside the roaring plunge of the river, staying just outside the mist that coated the rocks with frost. It was mostly like climbing a steep staircase. But eventually they came to sheer “pitches,” or stretches of cliff where they couldn’t boulder-hop their way. Jake went ahead, driving pitons and shouting down to Sam until a length of rope was secured. That was their handrail. With it, Rominy found the courage to climb higher. The last two weeks had carried her a long way from her confined existence as cubicle girl. They’d been camping in the Tibetan wilderness, fixing tires, pouring fuel out of jerry cans, and speculating under the stars. She made love to Jake in their tent. His anticipatory happiness calmed her, and his wacky historical and scientific passions were tolerable. He was very bright. She’d fallen in love with him, too, but hadn’t confessed it yet.

Nor had they taken off the rings.

“Your boyfriend looks like he’s done this before,” Sam remarked as they waited for Jake to lead a pitch above.

“He’s climbed in the Cascades back home,” she said. “For a journalist, he’s a jack-of-all-trades.”

“All this for a story?”

“He thinks it could make his career.”

“Looks like he’s got a hell of an expense account.”

“He found me an inheritance. I’m helping.”

“Hmph.” Sam looked skeptical. “How about you?”

“How about me?”

“What do you do when you’re not retracing Nazi footsteps?”

“I’m a publicist. I spend my days promoting bug-laden software that will be obsolete six months after we sell it. I’m like Dilbert.”

“Oh.” He unwrapped a piece of gum. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

He put it in his mouth to chew. “How’d you two meet?”

She pulled back her filthy hair. “He kidnapped me after my car blew up.”

Mackenzie looked at her questioningly, like she was joking. “Oh . . . kay.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I guess. You know this guy well?”

“Two weeks.”

“And you come all the way to Tibet with him, wear a wedding ring, and pretend to be his wife?”

“Like I said, it’s a long story.”

“Don’t you find his Nazi crap a little weird?”

“He just likes history.” Mackenzie made her defensive.

“He talks about them like they were
normal
somehow. Like he could explain them. Who does that, man? I asked him what he wrote for the paper and he was real vague. He just seems a little . . .
off
. You know? You seen his stuff?”

She was annoyed. Sam Mackenzie had no idea what had been going on. “No.”

“Meet his friends? Visit the paper?”

“Trust me, we haven’t had time.”

“But this guy’s on the level, right?”

“Hasn’t he paid you well so far?” Zing!

“Well, that’s the thing. Most guys your age are backpackers, roaming Asia on the cheap. They’re always trying to bid me down, or trying to write a check, or cursing at the cash machine at the Jokhang for not giving them what they want, because they don’t really have it. And Jake pulls out all this cash.” He shook his head. “I guess that’s impressive that he got you to give it to him. But unusual, too, you know?”

She flushed. “Unexpected inheritance.”

“But
he
spends it.”

“
We
spend it.”

“Okay. I mean I’m cool with it. I just . . .”

“Just what?”

“Want to make sure you’re okay.”

She spread her arms. “Other than being perched on a cliff in the middle of nowhere, I’m fine, see? Sorry, I just can’t talk about everything. Don’t worry, it’s nothing illegal. No drugs. We’re looking for my great-grandpa.”

“And great-grandpa was a Nazi?”

“He was
fighting
the Nazis.”

“Okay, that’s cool.”

But it wasn’t, completely, and the look he gave bothered her because it reignited her own doubts. That bullet casing. The cell phone battery. But Jake had been kind to her a hundred times this trip. Gentle. Caring. Loving. Sexy. Able. Confident. It was like a check-off list from
Cosmo
.

So why hadn’t she admitted she loved him?

Because he was guarded: he only revealed what he wanted to reveal. Because he was eccentric. Because, to be honest, sometimes he seemed too good to be true; guys weren’t like that. Because he’d given her his charm, she sensed, but not his heart. And because if she were honest about her
own
heart, she was here for herself, not him. It was an adventure. She was curious. She wanted to do something, to
be
something, that wasn’t just as add-along to some guy.

That wasn’t the same as love.

Jake called down. “Ready!” And up they went again.

In all, it took three hours. At last they neared the brink of the falls, the last scramble the steepest. Jake impatiently disappeared over the brow of the cliff, and then Sam. Wearily, Rominy dragged herself over, too. Were they about to see the oddities depicted in the satchel of diagrams?

A cold wind cooled her sweat when she stood, blowing out at her from a broken canyon. Jake was staring as if hypnotized, his arms dangling, his shoulders sagged. Sam Mackenzie had already slumped to rest on a boulder, puffing.

Above them, a ravine continued to climb toward ice and clouds, but its edges were uneven and the rock a lighter color, as if great chunks had broken loose and tumbled down. Ahead, seen through the fractured gorge, was a bowl of bright mountains, shimmering with snow, a perfect stadium of peaks. And in the middle was . . .

A lake.

The water was slate gray and opaque. From it ran the river, twisting through a broken barrier of boulders before dipping over the falls. Rominy went to where Jake was standing. He was staring, shocked. Clearly, this wasn’t what he expected to find.

“There’s no Shambhala, Jake.” She touched his shoulder. He twitched like a wary animal.

“They dammed the canyon,” he whispered.

“Who dammed the canyon?”

“They made a lake. It flooded the valley. It flooded Shambhala.”

“I don’t see a dam.”

“We just climbed up it. It’s a rock dam, an earth-fill dam, not a concrete one. Look.” He pointed up to the lighter-colored rock. “They blew out the canyon walls and it came down and plugged the river. Whatever was here is underwater.”

It looked like other alpine lakes she’d seen in the Cascades and Olympics, but Rominy decided not to contradict him. If he wanted to believe some kind of lost utopia was under the water, fine with her. But if the coordinates were right, they weren’t going to learn more about Benjamin Hood. And Jake didn’t have his scoop.

Now they could go home.

To what? How much of a couple were they, now that the quest had ended?

“You mean this happened sometime after 1938?” she clarified.

“Or even
during
1938. Maybe this is why Hood slunk home to America and hid. Maybe he spoiled what would have been the greatest find in archaeological history.” The tone was bitter.

“You mean he was embarrassed by whatever happened here?”

“I
hope
he was embarrassed, if there was a Shambhala and he drowned it.”

“Maybe you could come back with scuba gear.”

“Maybe.” He walked back to the brow of the cliff. To the south were the plains and mountains they’d already crossed, an immensity of emptiness. Far below, their parked Land Cruiser was a tiny toy. Vultures wheeled between them and that bottom.

“So it ain’t here?” Mackenzie asked.
Told you so
, he thought to himself.

Jake ignored him, looking all about. He glanced at the lake but didn’t seem inclined even to scramble the final distance to its shores.

Instead, he suddenly stiffened and pointed, bringing to Rominy’s mind for a moment one of Delphina Clarkson’s hunting hounds.

His head turned to them and he smiled. “Smoke.”

42

The Nunnery of the Closed Door, Tibet

September 19, Present Day

T
he nunnery that Jake had spotted was a hunkered quadrangle built like an old Tibetan fort. A stone outer wall twenty feet high grew organically out of the rocks on a steep ridgetop that jutted like a tongue from the Kunlun Mountains. The wall undulated with the terrain to enclose a temple, sleeping cells, and kitchen. The wall and utility buildings were gray, while the rectangular, flat-roofed temple was the red ocher of the Potala Palace. The buildings turned inward from the world—all doors and windows opened onto the courtyard, not the harsh environment—but prayer flags rose gaily to the apex of a
darchen
like lines to a Maypole. Golden finials marked the temple’s four corners.

It was from this refuge, so earth-toned that it was invisible from any distance, that smoke emanated.

“What the devil are Buddhists doing way out here, Sam?” Jake asked their guide.

“Contemplating the universe.” He shrugged. “Usually the monasteries are near villages. I’ve never heard of this one.”

“An unlikely location,” Jake murmured. “Unless there
is
a Shambhala.”

Getting to the nunnery was a tricky traverse, halfway down the rock dam they’d already climbed and then sideways to meet a goat track that led to the protruding ridge. A squall swept down from the mountains, first blowing gritty dust and then, when the sky darkened, rain mixed with snow. The dust and ice bits stung. The Americans, hoods up, looked like pilgrims themselves.

The gate, so old its wood seemed petrified, looked firm enough to withstand a battering ram. But it was the design upon them that startled Rominy. Strips of brass had been laid to make a pattern of interconnected squares, woven together so that each led to the other. It vaguely reminded Rominy of an Escher drawing of endless staircases leading up and down at the same time, an illusion that tricked the senses, but that’s not why she found it arresting.

It was the same pattern etched onto the gold coins left in Benjamin Hood’s safety deposit box.

“What does that symbol mean?” Rominy asked.

“That? Infinity,” Sam said. “You see it everywhere in Tibet, just like you see swastikas at times. They’ll take symbols like that and weave them into more complicated ones like a sun wheel.”

Jake raised his eyebrows and gave her a glance. Rominy shivered in the damp.

Hood’s souvenir gold coins weren’t a clue to a North Cascades gold mine. They were a reminder of this nunnery. A sign they’d come to the right place.

The Americans were wondering how to contact the residents inside when the gate suddenly swung open of its own accord and scarlet-clad nuns beckoned them into the courtyard that promised shelter from the wind. A returning sun made the puddles on the cobblestones shine and steam.

The two young women who greeted the travelers were not at all surprised at their visit. From this aerie they could have seen the Land Cruiser’s plume of dust for miles and followed the Americans’ antlike assault up the rock dam. Yet so artfully was the nunnery situated that it was invisible from the base of the waterfall. It watched, without being seen.

The heavy gate swung shut behind them.

The nuns spoke and, as always, Rominy struggled even to pick out meaningful syllables.
Dga’ bsu zhu sgo brgyab.

“I think it was, ‘Welcome to the Closed Door,’ ” Sam said.

“But they opened it.”

“And closed it again,” Jake said.

After the hike and rain, Rominy was trembling with cold. The nuns beckoned them onward to the temple. Inside, a single shaft of light shone down from a clerestory at the ceiling. The perimeter was shadowy, lit only by the flames that burned in lamps of yellow yak butter. The lamps weren’t enough to make it really warm, but it was drier and warmer than outside. Rominy shivered and a young nun slid a red woolen cloak over her shoulders, which she gratefully wrapped around her. A huge, bronze-colored Buddha, the bright paints of its decoration faded by decades of time and lamp smoke, rose toward the clerestory, its flesh as round and robust as a planet. In front was an altar with seven sacred silver bowls of water and sculptures carved from butter, as transitory as life itself. To the side was a pillared seating area, the wooden benches softened by pillows. They were directed to sit.