The Pressure of Darkness (19 page)

"Why?"

"We think he's building some kind of fortress out there. The over-flights made him nervous."

"Great. So any team going in there will run right into a posse of spooked druggies with AK-47s and an attitude."

"We have a plan to distract them. The pay is one hundred thousand for a couple of days' work, wired straight to your bank in the Netherlands Antilles. Will you do it?"

"No." Burke started the car and headed back to the garage. "I had my shot at Buey last year. I'll pass on this one. I've got too much on my plate with private clients."

"I can't change your mind?"

"Not this time."

They rode in silence, down Ventura to the garage entrance. Ryan tapped the dash. "Let me out here. My driver is picking me up." He got out, leaned back into the vehicle. "Should I use Weston, or maybe Lukac?"

Burke was intrigued, despite himself. He pondered. "Lukac has better Spanish. You might need that if he can grab a prisoner. Off the record, I think Weston should be riding a desk. He's a year or two past burned out."

"I'll ask Steve, then. Take it easy, Red."

Ryan started to close the door. Burke leaned across the passenger seat, held it open. "Cary?"

Ryan thought Burke was about to change his mind. He looked both ways, put his head back in the vehicle. "Yeah?"

"Keep me up to speed on this one. I'm into it, although I don't exactly know why. Just not now, okay? Maybe I can help out later."

Somewhat mollified, Ryan agreed. A Lincoln Town Car rolled slowly around the corner, tires squealing on the pavement. Major Ryan's driver unlocked the electric latch. Ryan slammed the door, got into his own vehicle and drove away.

Jack Burke remained behind for a long moment, brooding. He was starting to feel like a piece on someone else's chessboard.

TWENTY-TWO

Hidden Hills was a ranch-style community near the far suburb of Calabasas, right on the edge of L.A. County proper. It covered a large, sunburned area and featured white, rail fences and western style estates with horse corrals and riding trails. Burke gave his name at the gate and was handed convoluted directions to the property owned by Dr. Hasari Pal.

After two false starts—streets with similar names that led to dead ends—he found a two-story house, relatively modest for the area, perched at the top of a long and curving drive. Beyond the fence, a weary old Palomino studied Burke with something like suspicion, and then shook his long head to dislodge the relentless horde of flies nesting in his mane. Burke parked the car and stepped out into the shaded driveway. He checked his watch for the tenth time and brushed imaginary lint from his clothing. The walkway was flawless brick and curved through the lawn to a heavy wooden front door with a large brass knocker. Upon closer inspection, the knocker proved to be a brilliant carving of Lord Shiva, dancing before the wheel of life. Burke was nervous but determined not to show it. He lifted Shiva's feet and rapped them against the world to announce his arrival.

The clacking sound boomed through what sounded like a largely empty foyer. After a time, small footsteps approached. The door opened with a low moan. The small, fit elderly man who stood behind it wore a turban and traditional cotton clothing. His short white beard was neatly trimmed and he wore round reading glasses. He peered up at Burke with a palpable sweetness.

"May I help you, sir?" His accent was charming, probably Calcutta.

"I am here to see Dr. Pal." Burke was suddenly aware of his own accent, a flat, nasal twang that seemed annoyingly bland compared to the lilting, pastel lisp of the Indian. "My name is Jack Burke."

"Ah, yes! Mr. Burke, you are very welcome. The doctor and missus are expecting you. Please." The little man backed away from the door, motioned expansively. "My name is Mr. Nandi. May I offer you some tea?"

"Tea would be nice."

"Consider it done, sir. Dr. Pal asked me to tell you he is very, very sorry but he will be running a few minutes late. He hopes that this will not pose a difficulty."

"No, I have plenty of time."

"Very good."

The small feet pattered away. The living room was immense, yet sparsely furnished. Burke noted several beautiful pieces of art, carefully placed for maximum effect. There were Buddhist items, but the majority of the artifacts came from the Hindu pantheon. He saw numerous Shivas, some of the elephant god of wisdom Ganesh, the monkey god whose name Burke had forgotten, even a few striking representations of the Goddess Kali, the dark aspect of the feminine. Many of these pieces were even more striking and expensive than those in Stryker's small collection. Burke strolled over to admire some framed art and a photograph of a massive Tibetan Buddhist sand painting. He worked his way along the walls. To a man of his interests, the assembly was captivating.

The smell of strong tea entered the room, but when Burke turned a bit belatedly, the little man called Mr. Nandi had already vanished. He continued to look around. A small tea set was now carefully angled on an end table near the leather couch. Burke approached and spotted a large, leather-bound volume that rested on the mahogany coffee table.

He sat down, added two lumps of sugar to the strong black tea and opened the book, which had been painstakingly produced and seemed hand-written. Someone had very carefully quoted classic Hindu poetry and then translated the lines into contemporary English. There were only a few illustrations and the poetry did not seem to have been arranged in any particular order.

"Is Kali, my Divine Mother, of a black complexion?

She appears black because She is viewed from a distance;

But when intimately known She is no longer so.

The sky appears blue at a distance, but look at it close by

And you will find that it has no color.

The water of the ocean looks blue at a distance,

But when you go near and take it in your hand,

You find that it is colorless and clear."

— Ramakrishna Paramhansa (1836-86)

Burke carried the book, which was heavier than he'd expected, over to one of the representations of Kali. Seen up close, it was a clever wood carving painted over in black, silver, and red. Burke knew the black goddess to be many things to many people. Here, she was seen in her most terrible aspect, as Kali-ma, the dark mother, a raging black woman with four arms. She had the head of a victim—some say a demon—in one bloody hand, and a sword in the other. Her two free hands were raised as if to demand the worship of her followers. Kali wore a necklace of skulls and a waistcoat made from the hands of corpses. Her enormous red tongue rolled out of her mouth like some terrible serpent; she stood on the prone body of her husband. Burke looked down at the book, turned the page.

Behold my Mother playing with Lord Shiva

Lost in an ecstasy of joy!

Drunken with a draught of celestial wine,

She reels

And yet does not fall . . .

Erect, She stands on Shiva's bosom,

And the earth trembles under Her tread

She and Her Lord are mad with lust and frenzied

Casting aside all fear and shame.

— Ramprasad (1718-1775)

"Do you know the story behind that one?" The voice came from nearby, but Burke managed to disguise his surprise.

He forced a polite smile. "Good to see you again, Dr. Pal."

Mohandas Hasari Pal, Ph.D. was a tall man, quite muscular for a practitioner of both tantra yoga and several Chinese martial arts. He had dark hair and eyes and the slightly bronze skin of a full-blooded native of India. His English was clipped, precise, and virtually free of accent. Pal did not seem to have aged a day since Burke last saw him, although he was certain to be in his fifties. He walked his obsidian eyes over Burke and then inclined his head gracefully.

"Ah, yes. Young Mr. Burke. I remember you quite well, actually."

"Should I be flattered?"

"Not necessarily, I'm afraid. You were often intellectually self-important and obnoxious."

Burke smiled. "I suppose I was."

"Ah, but at least I recall you as the kind of student who actually paid attention. That is a rare thing in a class dealing with comparative religion. You were in that class my wife audited for amusement, no?"

"Yes. And I remember her well." Burke's pulse leapt, but he willed it to slow again. "And is she well these days, doctor?"

"Quite. Indira will be joining us shortly." Pal floated across the floor, moving closer. Like Mr. Nandi, his feet barely seemed to touch the floor. "And you may call me Mo, Mr. Burke. It is a nickname somewhat disrespectfully derived from Mohandas, but I'm afraid I have become quite used to it during my many years in this, my adopted country."

Burke was treading water. "If I remember correctly, you brought Mrs. Pal here with you when you became a citizen."

"Yes, Indira was raised in a small and rather primitive village called Meeta. Her people could not read. I married her when I was forty and she was but fourteen. I purchased her from her family. This is a practice which I recognize would be deemed scandalous in America. But she was impossibly beautiful and I was madly in love."

"When we were in your class, I think we were both in our twenties."

"Yes," Pal replied, without apparent subtext. "I suppose she is much closer to your age."

"A few years younger, actually."

Stay on guard.
Pal missed very little. Burke knew that he'd grown up in the city, in Calcutta's hardscrabble slums, but attended good schools as a young man, likely due to the fire of his intellect and an obvious flair for manipulation. As a Professor, Mo Pal was an intense man both fiercely Americanized and wedded to the violent and mysterious mythology of his youth.

Pal smiled politely, pointed to the poem Burke was reading only seconds ago. His hand came closer and the skin smelled slightly of scented oil. "Legend has it that the demon known as Daruka is endangering the world. So Lord Shiva asks his wife Parvati to eliminate the threat. Parvati acquires the body of Shiva, drinks of his essence, and becomes a creature known as Kali. And this new goddess is so horrific and ferocious in her likeness that all beings quake in alarm. Kali and her assistants, all of whom feast on human flesh, attack and defeat the demon Daruka."

Burke remembered. "But Kali has awakened her blood lust. She cannot stop the slaughter."

Dr. Pal nodded. "Indeed. Her hunger and rage, once aroused, are so potent that they threaten to destroy this entire plane of existence. She goes on a rampage and murders everyone and everything in her path."

"I've forgotten the ending, but it had something to do with a baby."

"Lord Shiva is unable to stop her with words or commands, and so he ultimately transforms himself into the shape of an infant and hides himself upon the battlefield. He cries out for sustenance and Kali, deceived by Shiva, puts down her weapons to suckle him. And that night Lord Shiva danced tandava."

"The dance of creation."

"Yes. To please the goddess Kali, who became so happy she began to dance it with him. For most of her followers, though, Kali-ma is the Great Mother. Her demonic aspects are generally hidden, but must never be completely forgotten, lest she become aroused and destroy us all."

"As we males know women can."

Pal blinked. "As we know all too well, yes. Some left-hand tantra followers in the lesser cults dress as women, not for any sexual reason but to remind themselves of the awesome power of the feminine."

Pal took Burke by the sleeve and walked him to another work, a painting clearly hundreds of years old. Here Kali was depicted at rest, less enraged. She was still quite formidable. "But you see there is much more to the story, because Kali offers freedom, Mr. Burke. If we come to her as a child comes to his mother, she teaches us the true nature of reality."

"And the temporal nature of the self, taking us all back to the curse of our ego."

Pal touched the painting lightly with perfectly manicured fingers. "Yes. If man lives his life unwilling to become accepting of pain and death, he automatically dooms himself to further suffering. If his ego tells him he will not die then die he must."

"And so we all must die."

"One does not have to become a transvestite to know that Kali teaches the great doctrine of non-attachment by both the grossest and clearest of means. She uses death to teach us a gentle and profound acceptance of life the only way it may truly be possessed . . . and that is in the given moment."

Burke walked to another statue, made of dark brown clay. "This one is Aztec, right?"

"Yes. She is Tonantzin, 'our mother.' The Aztec version of Kali, you might say. Notice that she wears a skirt of live serpents? Coatlicue literally means 'serpent skirt.' She is once again the feminine principle as both creator and destroyer of men and Gods alike."

"Didn't she have a couple of other names? Something about childbirth, maybe Toci for grandmother?"

"Oh, yes, you were a fine student, Mr. Burke." Pal grinned broadly. "But one would suspect perhaps a young male college student would remember her other visage more enthusiastically. She was also called Tlazolteotl." He waited, curious to see if Burke could make the connection on his own. He couldn't.

"Goddess of impurity, Mr. Burke," Pal chuckled at his own joke, "and thus, every hormone-addled young man's dream."

The two men locked eyes, stared for a fraction too long; a strange tension appeared to hang like a mist in the air.

"I've always been drawn more to Buddhism than Hinduism," Burke said, breaking an awkward silence. His own deep voice sounded far away. "Zen in particular. But I suspect that we Americans seldom have the patience to study long and complex mythologies."

"Kali-ma is not a myth, Mr. Burke. Any more than Tonantzin is surreal."

"Enlighten me."