The Assassin Lotus

by David Angsten

  I asked Anand if he knew what the name meant.

  “‘The place of ruins,’” he said. “It may be the most dangerous desert on earth. No one, nothing lives there. It’s deeper inland than any desert in the world. The empty heart of Asia.”

  No wonder the caravans circled it, I thought. Avoiding the ultimate void. It reminded me of the dark void of Tamerlane’s tomb. And the so-called “emptiness” of the Buddha—

  “Oh my God,” I said. The Buddha. Hand raised. Holding up the lotus. “Right before your eyes!”

  75.

  The Empty “O”

  I RIPPED INTO MY DUFFEL BAG and dragged out Dan’s drawings. Pages fluttered down over the map. Scanning them quickly, my eyes fell on the Buddha. I centered the page and arranged the various mountain pages around it.

  “Look,” I said. “He’s sitting alone in empty space. Holding up the lotus. He’s not in a square fortress—he’s surrounded by a ring of mountains.”

  The others closed in around me, shifting their gaze between the drawing and the map.

  “And the fingers of his right hand touch the earth,” Phoebe said.

  “He’s pointing!” I said. “Between those two rivers.”

  “Here,” Phoebe said, indicating a city on the Silk Road route at the southwest rim of the desert. Two rivers from the mountains bled out on either side.

  Dan lit up. “Khotan!” he said.

  “You know it?” I asked.

  “I know about it,” he said. “It used to be the kingdom of Khotan—the Silk Road’s cultural capital. And a thriving center of Buddhism, and of Buddhist philosophy and art. There’s a legend the city was founded by the son of Ashoka the Great.”

  I remembered Fiore mentioning the famous Indian emperor. “Maybe Ashoka’s son brought the soma lotus with him,” I said. “Maybe Khotan is your Shambhala.”

  “It’s an excellent candidate,” Dan said, quickly warming to the idea. “There were many Buddhist cities along the ancient Silk Road. But Khotan had hundreds of monasteries and thousands of Buddhist monks.”

  “It’s hard to picture Shangri-la in the desert,” Phoebe said.

  “Khotan was the largest, most fertile oasis,” Dan said. “Wealthy from trade, and very tolerant and diverse. Nestorian Christians, Indian Hindus, Chinese Taoists, Persian Zoroastrians—all were welcomed equally. The city took to heart the Buddha’s message: he wasn’t trying to create a new religion; he was trying to create a new civilization. The idea may have reached its zenith with Khotan. Its citizens were highly cultured and sophisticated. And elaborately polite—they greeted each other by genuflecting. The place was luxuriously sensual and open. Women wore pants, not veils, and rode horses like the men. The people staged great parades and celebrations. Painting and music and poetry flourished.”

  “Sounds like the Buddhist paradise to me,” I said.

  “The city is no paradise now,” Anand said. “I was on an assignment there—with Maya—two years ago, monitoring the Uyghur uprising. It was not a happy place.”

  “They’re rioting again there now,” Phoebe said. “I saw it on the news in Bukhara.”

  “Uyghurs resent the Han Chinese as much as Tibetans do,” Dan said.

  “But they’re far more likely to use violence,” Anand added.

  “They’re not Buddhists?” I asked.

  “The Uyghurs are Turkic Muslims,” Dan said. “Khotan remained predominantly Buddhist for more than a thousand years. But around 1000 A.D. the kingdom fell, and the Buddhist monks were all driven out.”

  “The Muslim invasions,” Anand said. “Similar to what occurred in India.”

  Dan said, “I remember, there’s a famous verse in Turkic, praising the kingdom’s conquest. ‘Like river torrents, we flooded their cities, we captured their monasteries, and shat on their statues of the Buddha.’”

  “Lovely,” Phoebe said. “I hope it rhymes in Turkic.” She was surfing for info on her cell.

  “I believe there’s only a tiny Buddhist enclave there now,” Anand said. “They maintain a monastery on the outskirts of the city. Maya tried to visit it, but they wouldn’t allow outsiders.”

  “Listen to this,” Phoebe said. She’d pulled up the Wiki entry. “‘Khotan is famous for its high-quality nephrite jade,’” she read. “And those two rivers? One is called the Yurungkash, the White Jade River, ‘alluding to the white jade recovered from its alluvial deposits.’ The other river is called…” She looked up at us, her face alight—“The Karakash. Anyone want to guess what that name means?”

  Anand and Dan and I exchanged gleeful glances. “If ‘Karakum’ means ‘the Black Desert,’” I said, “I think we’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  Phoebe continued reading. “The monastery you mentioned? It lies by the shoreline of the Karakash.”

  Dan’s eyes glowed. “It may be the last vestige of Shambhala...”

  “It has to be the source!” I said.

  “If it is,” Phoebe said, “the Iranians are probably already there.”

  I’d forgotten about the stolen manuscript. The Assassins knew as much or more than we did.

  Dan looked suddenly stricken. Staring down at Khotan. “Dr. Fiore will be with the monks,” he said. “Govindi will be with him.” He raised his haunted gaze to us. “It’s all my fault,” he said.

  Phoebe and I glanced at each other. Anand laid a hand on Dan’s shoulder. He eyed the three of us gravely. “We’ve got to hurry if we want to save them.”

  76.

  Invincible

  WITHIN MINUTES WE WERE ON THE ROAD AGAIN. Anand, riding shotgun, cell phone to his ear, was speaking in singsong Hindi and English to his RAW office back in Delhi, requesting they facilitate our visa applications and help expedite our entry into China. At the same time, on her cell, Phoebe booked us flights—from Tashkent, the Uzbek capital just north of us, to Ürümqi, the provincial capital of northwestern China, and finally over the desert to the city of Khotan, known to the Chinese as Hotan.

  Shouting above the din of telephone chatter, Dan fed me directions as I steered us out of town. Before long we were cruising through the countryside. I borrowed Phoebe’s cell when she finished and put in a call to Faraj. Oddly, he didn’t answer. I left a message telling him we were heading to Hotan, China. Then I dialed Harry Grant.

  “Jack?”

  “Where are you?”

  “The hospital,” he said. “Just got here a few minutes ago.” He sounded distracted.

  “Is Faraj there?”

  “You haven’t heard from him?” he asked.

  “Not since yesterday.”

  “The nurse said he left in a rage. Very distraught. He must have—”

  Beside me in the car, Anand was still talking into his cell, and asking Phoebe for passport numbers and flight information. I couldn’t hear Harry Grant. “What did you say?”

  “He left. Last night. They said he was very upset. He’d been by her side almost constantly. They said he just couldn’t believe—”

  “Is she with him?”

  “Oriana? I thought they said they called you—”

  “What happened?”

  He paused. “Oriana died last night.”

  “What?”

  “Massive hematoma. Lower thoracic—”

  “My God.”

  “She was under heavy sedation. Probably was never aware—”

  “How could it happen? She was recovering—”

  “Her spleen had been nicked by the dagger. The surgeon thought he had sewn it shut, but it opened yesterday, bled out before anyone knew. When the nurse finally noticed, last night…”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I should have gotten here—”

  “No,” I said. “I shouldn’t have left her. It’s just…there’s been so much happening.”

  “Did you find your brother?”

  “Yes.” I glanced in the mirror. Dan was silent, watching me. “He’s here with us now, safe.” />
  “That’s good,” Harry said. “I’m glad.”

  Having overheard my end of the conversation, Anand and Phoebe had stopped talking. I was staring out at the road ahead, but not really seeing the road. Hazel, I thought. Her eyes. Light brown with a tinge of green. “I should have been there,” I said.

  “You did what you had to do.”

  What I had to do.

  “Tell me where you are now,” Harry said.

  His voice sounded far away. I wasn’t sure I should answer.

  “Jack. Please. You have to let me help you. These men have killed too many people.”

  Too many people. Way too many. And now, beautiful Oriana…

  “She was more than a friend to me,” Harry was saying.

  “I know,” I said.

  “Then you must let me do what I have to do.”

  I thought of the two men I’d shot in the pit, the men who had stabbed Oriana. The runt had grinned at me as he died. Amused by my fear and confusion. He had no doubts, no fears, no qualms—only what he had to do.

  “Oriana would have wanted me to help you,” Harry said.

  “But she’s not the reason, is she?”

  “Reason for what?”

  “Your obsession with killing these men.”

  Harry was silent.

  “Who was it?” I asked. “Someone close?”

  He waited a moment. “An Iraqi ex-pat, living in London. She came back to Baghdad to run for office. I was sworn to protect her. Bravest woman I ever met. Thought she was invincible.”

  Invincible. “No one’s invincible,” I said. “Those who pretend to be end up dead.” Maya, Saar, Oriana. Next up probably Harry Grant. What drove these people to do what they did? What made them risk their lives?

  “What color were her eyes?” I asked.

  “Her eyes? Brown. Dark brown, almost black. I remember she—” He stopped himself, paused a moment. “She was remarkable,” he said.

  Dark-eyed. Brave. Headstrong. Invincible.

  “Do you know which one of them killed her?” I asked.

  “Yes. Ali Mahbood.”

  “The guy from Kahrizak Prison?”

  “Vanitar’s old boss. Second name on the list.”

  “How do you know it was him?”

  “The way he killed her,” he said.

  “Cut her throat?”

  “No. It was...much worse than that. A method he developed at the prison. Now it seems all of them are doing it.”

  I flashed on Saar, disemboweled in the trunk. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” I said. “Please, forgive me for asking.”

  Grant was silent. “It isn’t vengeance, Jack. It’s my duty. I feel...responsible.”

  His duty. His dharma.

  “I just feel like shit,” I said.

  “That comes first,” he said.

  Phoebe laid a hand on my shoulder. I returned her gaze in the rearview mirror. I looked at Dan and Anand.

  I don’t want these people to die, I thought. I don’t want any more killing. But the killing, I knew, was not over yet. Along with Ali Mahbood, there were still half a dozen Hashishin on the loose—including Vanitar, eager for revenge. And all of them undoubtedly now heading to Hotan.

  “Jack—”

  “We’re on our way to Tashkent,” I told him. “We’re flying to the city of Hotan, in China. There’s a Buddhist monastery there called Kutana, on the banks of the Black Jade River. We think it’s the source of the soma lotus. The monks there may be in danger.”

  “From the Iranians?”

  “They’ve got the same information we have,” I said, “only they got it one day earlier.”

  Harry thought for a moment. “Who is with you now?” he asked.

  I glanced in the mirror. “My brother. Two friends.”

  “They armed?”

  “No. Anand says we’ll never get firearms past the Chinese customs authori—”

  “Who is Anand?” he asked.

  I looked at the man beside me. “I told you. A friend.”

  After a pause Harry said, “Be careful, Jack. The police won’t be any help in Hotan. At the moment, they’ve got their hands full.”

  “We’ve heard,” I said. “What will you do?”

  “I’ve got to make some arrangements here. There’s going to be a lot of questions. But I’ll be on the next flight out to Hotan. Try to keep safe ‘til I get there.”

  “Okay,” I said. Then added: “I’m sorry…about Oriana.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “Me, too.”

  I shut the cell. Looked at the road. Glanced in the mirror at Dan.

  Dan was staring at me. “You shouldn’t have told him,” he said.

  HOTAN WAS IN CHAOS. Business and tourism had ground to a halt. The airport teemed with fleeing Chinese. Using Faraj’s old passport as ID, I paid in cash for a rental car. On the drive out to the monastery, I returned the call from Duran.

  He didn’t answer; I assumed he was in flight. I left him a voice-mail message that would have fooled the devil himself. It seemed almost indulgent to keep stringing him along, but the American might prove useful in helping to stop Mahbood, I thought. And once I had the lotus—the Ayatollah’s prize—I could at last take vengeance for my brother.

  Ending Duran’s pointless life would be an act of kindness. Such a trusting dupe. More boy than man, I thought. Lacking any conviction, led only by his lust. Was he not the very embodiment of his country?

  77.

  Xitoy

  IT WASN’T UNTIL OUR PLANE SET DOWN IN ÜRÜMQI that I finally heard back from Faraj. As we waited in line to be processed for entry, Phoebe noticed his message on her cell—he had called during our three-hour flight from Tashkent. She listened to the message for what seemed a full minute, a look of fascination on her face.

  “What is it?” I asked when she finally finished.

  She shook her head in disbelief, hit replay and handed me the phone.

  Faraj’s voice strained over road noise and wind: My friend Jack, I pray that you receive this. Last night, I return from dinner, I see a bearded man driving off in a black Mercedes. It is Ali Mahbood! I run to Oriana’s room. Her stitches are leaking. The nurse says she is bleeding, inside. I cry to Allah, my heart is breaking. But they cannot save her. I tell them she is murdered, but they do not believe me. So I go, myself, to find Mahbood.

  At the airport, only one place rents this car. They tell me he is going to Karshi, he is taking the midnight flight to Hotan. I am following him. I will follow this murderer wherever he goes. Insha’Allah, I will find him, Jack. For Oriana, I—

  “End of message. To keep this message, push—”

  I closed the cell. “Where is Karshi?” I asked.

  “Couple hours south of Samarkand,” Phoebe said. “It was the first city I tried to book us through.”

  “To Hotan?”

  “Yeah, there’s a direct flight. Only problem: It left early this morning.”

  “Faraj must have taken it,” I said. “I wonder if he’s caught up with them.” Our flight to Hotan wouldn’t leave for several hours, barring visa delays. I called Harry Grant and left a message on his cell relating what Faraj had told me. A short while later, he called me back.

  “Your friend was right,” he said. “Someone cut a wire coat hanger and slipped it through her stitching. They found it in the trash bin, coated with her blood.”

  Grant was calling from the road. It so happened that he, too, was on his way to Karshi. Booked on the midnight flight to Hotan, he wouldn’t be arriving until late in the night. “Please stay out of trouble ‘til I get there,” he ordered.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ghurkas are brave. But like you said, no one’s invincible.”

  “What…?”

  “Just be careful. Please tell that to Mr. Pandava as well.”

  He hung up. I looked at Anand.

  AS I HAD EXPECTED, I arrived too late. Through
binoculars I saw a Mercedes parked before the walls of the Buddhist monastery. Mahbood and his men were already inside. So be it, I thought; my chance will come. Who are we to question the workings of the Lord? A servant does his best with what he’s given.

  Soon a second Mercedes-Benz drove up and parked at the monastery. Two bearded Hashishin emerged. Mahbood had flown them in from wherever they’d been stationed—Damascus? Beirut? Baghdad? Kabul?—uprooting them from imbeds that may have taken months, from roles they had meticulously constructed. All that careful effort had been tossed aside for this: to reclaim the lotus from the Buddhists, and to replenish for Mahbood the pure drink of Paradise.

  I alone would stop him, and secure the living lotus for the Grand Ayatollah. Together we’d rebuild the Hashishin!

  The two men scanned the surrounding plains, then disappeared inside. For half an hour I waited, debating my next move. Suddenly I saw Mahbood drag out an old white-bearded monk, trailed by an entourage of protest. He forced the monk into the car, slashing a young woman, robed in crimson, who physically tried to stop him.

  A nun! A girl! Do Buddhist men have no honor? The monks stood by and watched as she put them all to shame.

  I followed Mahbood’s Mercedes at a quarter mile’s distance, until at last the car pulled off onto a desert road. Driving past the turnoff, I parked along the shoulder and climbed out with my binoculars. For several minutes I tracked the trailing cloud of dust until it faded. Then I grabbed the goatskin and prepared a place for prayer.

  No sense keeping close; I’d follow soon enough. Mahbood had entered the Taklimakan, Satan’s Sea of Death. For me, a careful strategy of patience seemed most fitting. For Ali Mahbood, the traitor, there would be only one way out: God’s scimitar—my dagger—the glinting gate to Hell!

  SAMSARA

  78.

  Kutana

  THE WORM OF FEAR TWISTED, spinning its silken thread.

  Across the rice fields, the white walls of the Kutana monastery shimmered in the heat, and the tiered roofs above them seemed to hover. Orange dust in the air turned the sun into the moon, a milky pail of soma for the war god. Anand said it was typical of Taklimakan towns, bathed by the windblown dunes of the desert, but we had seen smoke columns rising from the city, and I wondered now how long those angry fires would keep burning, and if the sun would soon be blotted out. The moon-like sun, the saffron sky, the gleaming irrigation channels watered from the river—all appeared imbued with a dreamlike unreality. Only the very tangible tension made it true.