“The Specialist has identified the only two people who have full knowledge of how to manipulate the statue that interests you: the king and the prince who is heir to the throne, a young man whom no one has seen since he was five or six years old,” he reported.
“Why is that?”
“He is being educated in a secret place. All the monarchs of the Forbidden Kingdom go through special training in their childhood and youth. The parents turn the child over to a lama, who prepares him to govern. Among many other things, the prince must learn the code of the Golden Dragon.”
“Then that lama, or whatever you call him, must also know the code.”
“No. He is only a mentor, a guide. No one, other than the monarch and his heir, knows the complete code. The code is divided into four parts, and each one is kept in a different monastery. The mentor takes the prince to all of them during his training, a process that takes twelve years, during which he learns the complete code,” the agent explained.
“How old is this prince?”
“About eighteen. His education is nearly complete, but we are not sure that he knows how to decipher the code as yet.”
“Where is he now?” the Collector asked impatiently.
“We believe that he is in a secret hermitage in the peaks of the Himalayas.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Bring him to me.”
“That will not be easy. I have just told you that his location is uncertain, and we are not absolutely sure that he has all the information you need.”
“Then find out! That’s what I’m paying for, man. And if you don’t find him, then bribe the king.”
“How shall we do that?”
“These little kings of second-rate countries are all corrupt. Offer him whatever he wants: money, women, automobiles, whatever,” said the multibillionaire.
“You have nothing that can tempt this king. He is not interested in material things,” replied the Japanese agent, without veiling the scorn he felt for the client.
“And power? Nuclear bombs, for example?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then kidnap him. Torture him. Do whatever you have to do to drag the secret out of him.”
“In his case torture will not work. He will die without telling us anything. The Chinese tried those methods with the lamas in Tibet, and they rarely have any effect. Those people are trained to separate body from mind,” said the Specialist’s envoy.
“How do they do that?”
“Let’s say that they ascend to a higher mental plane. The spirit detaches itself from its physical connection. Do you understand?”
“Spirit? You believe in that?” the Collector scoffed.
“It doesn’t matter whether I believe or not. The fact is they do it.”
“You mean they’re like those circus fakirs who don’t eat for months and lie on beds of nails?”
“I am speaking of something much more mystical than that. Certain lamas can remain outside their bodies for as long as they wish.”
“And?”
“That means they feel no pain. They can even die at will. They simply stop breathing. It is futile to torture a person who is like that,” the agent explained.
“And truth serum?”
“Drugs are ineffective because the mind is on a different plane, not connected with the brain.”
“Are you trying to tell me that the king of some dinky country can do that?” the Collector roared.
“We do not know with certainty, but if the training he received in his youth was complete, and if he has practiced throughout his lifetime, that is exactly what I’m trying to tell you.”
“The man has to have some weakness!” the Collector exclaimed, pacing around the room like a caged animal.
“He has very few, but we are looking for them,” said the agent and placed a card on the table on which he had written in purple ink the amount, in millions of American dollars, the operation would cost.
It was incredibly high, but the Collector concluded that he was not dealing with a normal kidnapping, and that in any case he could pay it. When he had the Golden Dragon in his hands and controlled the world’s stock markets, he would recover his investment a thousand times over.
“All right, but I don’t want problems of any kind; you must be discreet and not provoke an international incident. It is crucial that no one connect me with this matter; if they did, my reputation would be ruined. Your job is to make the king talk, even if you have to blow that country to bits. You got it? I don’t care how you do it.”
“You will have news soon,” said the visitor, standing and silently disappearing.
It seemed to the Collector that the agent had evaporated. He shuddered: he regretted that he had to have dealings with such people. However, he couldn’t complain; the Specialist was a first-class professional whose services he required to become the richest man in the world—number one, the richest person in the history of humanity, richer than the ancient Egyptian pharaohs or Roman emperors.
The morning sun was blazing over the Himalayas. Master Tensing had finished his meditation and prayers. He had washed, with the deliberation and precision that characterized all his movements, in a slender thread of water trickling down from the mountains, and now he was preparing their one meal of the day. His disciple, prince Dil Bahadur, had boiled water with tea, salt, and yak butter. One part was left in a gourd to be drunk during the day and the other was mixed with toasted barley flour, for their tsampa. Master and disciple carried their staples in a small sack tucked among the folds of their tunics.
Dil Bahadur had also boiled a few vegetables that they had coaxed with great effort from the arid land of a natural terrace a long way from the humble, ancient hermitage where they lived. The prince had had to walk several hours to obtain a handful of greens for their meal.
“I see you are limping, Dil Bahadur,” the master observed.
“No, no . . .”
The master locked eyes with his student, who noted a spark of amusement in the lama’s pupils.
“I fell,” he confessed, showing the scratches and bruises on one leg.
“How?”
“I was not concentrating. I am sorry, master,” said the youth, bowing deeply.
“The elephant trainer needs five virtues, Dil Bahadur: good health, confidence, patience, sincerity, and wisdom,” the lama said, smiling.
“I forgot the five virtues. At this moment I do not have perfect health because I lost confidence as I walked. I lost confidence because I was hurrying; I was not patient. And when I told you I was not limping, I was not sincere. In sum, I have far to go before I am wise, master.”
Both laughed happily. The lama went to a wooden box, took out a ceramic bottle containing a greenish ointment, and gently rubbed it on the prince’s leg.
“Master, I believe that you have achieved enlightenment but have been left here on this earth only in order to teach me,” Dil Bahadur sighed, and as answer, the lama gave him an affectionate tap on the head with the bottle.
They prepared for the brief ceremony of thanks they always performed before eating, then sat in the lotus position high atop their mountain with their bowls of tsampa and tea in front of them. Between mouthfuls, which they chewed deliberately, they admired the landscape in silence, because they never spoke as they ate. Their eyes were lost in the magnificent chain of snowy peaks stretching before them. The sky was turning a deep cobalt blue.
“It will be very cold tonight,” the prince said when they had finished their meal.
“This is a very beautiful morning,” the master responded.
“Oh, of course. The here and now. We must rejoice in the beauty of this moment instead of thinking of the storm to come,” the student recited in a slightly ironic tone.
“Very good, Dil Bahadur.”
“Perhaps there is not all that much that I must yet learn,” the youth smiled.
“Almost nothing, only a little modesty,” the lama replied.
As they talked a bird appeared in the sky. It flew in great circles, spreading its enormous wings, and then disappeared.
“What was that bird?” the lama asked, getting to his feet.
“It looked like a white eagle,” said the youth.
“I have never seen one here.”
“You have been observing nature for many years. Possibly you know all the birds and beasts of this region.”
“It would be an unpardonable arrogance on my part to pretend that I know everything that lives in these mountains, but in truth I have never seen a white eagle,” the lama replied.
“I must go to my lessons, master,” said the prince, picking up the bowls and going inside.
High up on the mountain, in a cleared circle, Tensing and Dil Bahadur were exercising, practicing Tao-shu, a combination of several martial arts invented by the monks at the remote fortified monastery of Chenthan Dzong. The survivors of the earthquake that destroyed the monastery had scattered throughout Asia to teach their art. Each trained only one person, male or female, selected for physical capacity and moral integrity. That was how their knowledge was transmitted. The total number of warriors expert in Tao-shu never exceeded twelve in each generation. Tensing was one of them, and the student he had chosen to replace him was Dil Bahadur.
The rocky ground was treacherous this time of year; there was frost at dawn, and the rocks were slippery. Dil Bahadur enjoyed the exercise more in the fall and winter because soft snow cushioned the falls. Besides, he liked the feel of the winter air. Enduring the cold was part of the harsh apprenticeship his master was submitting him to, such as walking barefoot most of the time, eating very little, and sitting motionless for hours and hours to meditate. By noon that day the sun was shining and there was no refreshing breeze; his bruised leg hurt, and with every badly executed tumbling pass he landed on rocks, but he did not ask for a break. His master had never heard him complain.
In size, the prince, who was slim and of medium height, contrasted greatly with Tensing, who came from the eastern region of Tibet where people are unusually tall. The lama was nearly seven feet, and throughout his lifetime he had been devoted to both spiritual practice and physical exercise. He was a giant with the muscles of a weight lifter.
“Forgive me if I have been too rough, Dil Bahadur. Possibly in a former life I was a cruel warrior,” Tensing apologized after he overthrew his student the fifth time.
“Possibly in a former life I was a fragile maiden,” Dil Bahadur replied, lying flat on the ground and panting.
“Perhaps it would help if you did not try to control your body with your mind. You must be like the tigers that range through the Himalayas: pure instinct and determination,” the lama suggested.
“Perhaps I shall never be as strong as my honorable master,” said the youth, struggling to his feet.
“The storm tears the mighty oak from the soil, but not the reed, because it bends. Do not judge my strength, only my weaknesses.”
“Possibly my master has no weaknesses.” Dil Bahadur smiled as he assumed the defense posture.
“My strength is also my weakness, Dil Bahadur. You must use it against me.”
Seconds later, close to three hundred pounds of muscle and bone came flying through the air in the prince’s direction. This time, however, with the grace of a dancer, Dil Bahadur stepped toward the hurtling mass almost upon him. At the instant when the two bodies made contact, he twisted slightly to the left, deflecting Tensing’s charge. The master dropped to the ground, rolling easily on his shoulder and hip. He immediately sprang to his feet and with a formidable leap renewed the attack. Dil Bahadur was waiting for him. Despite his weight, the lama sprang like a cat, tracing an arc in the air, but his ferocious kick failed to reach the youth, because Dil Bahadur was not there to receive it. In a fraction of a second the student was behind his opponent and striking a quick blow to the nape of his master’s neck. That was one of the passes of Tao-shu that could immediately paralyze and even kill, but the prince’s force was calculated to drop his instructor without injuring him.
“Possibly Dil Bahadur was a maiden warrior in a former life,” said Tensing, standing up, very satisfied, and bowing deeply to his student.
“Perhaps my honorable master forgot the virtues of the reed.” The youth smiled and bowed in return.
At that moment both looked up as a shadow fell onto the ground: overhead was the same white bird they had seen hours earlier, circling above them.
“Do you notice anything strange about that eagle?” asked the lama.
“Perhaps my sight is failing, master, but I cannot see its aura.”
“Nor can I.”
“What does that mean?” the youth inquired.
“You tell me what it means, Dil Bahadur.”
“If we cannot see its aura, master, it may be because it has none.”
“That is a very wise conclusion,” the lama joked.
“How can it not have an aura?”
“Possibly it is a mental projection,” Tensing suggested.
“Let us try to communicate with it,” said Dil Bahadur.
Both men closed their eyes and opened their minds and hearts to receive the energy of the powerful bird circling overhead. They stood for several minutes in deep concentration. So strong was the bird’s presence that they could feel the vibration from its wings on their skin.
“Is it saying anything to you, master?”
“I sense nothing but its anguish and confusion. I cannot decipher a message. And you?”
“No, I cannot.”
“I do not know what this means, Dil Bahadur, but the eagle has a reason for seeking us,” Tensing concluded. He had never had a similar experience, and he was disturbed by it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Totemic Jaguar
THERE WAS GREAT CONFUSION IN the city of Tunkhala. The police were interrogating half the population, as detachments of soldiers set off for the interior of the country, some in Jeeps and others on horseback, since no wheeled vehicle could travel the steep mountain trails. Monks with offerings of flowers, rice, and incense congregated around religious statues. Prayer flags were fluttering all around the city, and trumpets sounded in the temples. For the first time since it was inaugurated, the television station broadcast all day long, repeating the same news over and over and showing photographs of the missing girls. Not even a pin could have been squeezed into the homes of the victims: friends, relatives, and neighbors arrived constantly to offer their condolences, bringing food and prayers written on paper they burned before their religious images.
Kate Cold was able to communicate by telephone with the American embassy in India and ask for their help, but she had little faith that aid would arrive with the necessary speed—if it arrived at all. The official who took the call told her that the Forbidden Kingdom was not under his jurisdiction, and that Nadia Santos wasn’t an American citizen in any case—she was Brazilian. In view of that conversation, Kate had decided to cling to General Myar Kunglung like his shadow. He was the person in charge of the only military resources in the country, and she did not intend to allow him to be distracted for an instant. She ripped off the sarong she’d been wearing the last few days, put on her usual explorer’s outfit, and climbed into the general’s Jeep—and no one could dissuade her.
“You and I are going to organize a campaign,” she announced to the surprised general, who did not understand everything the writer said though he understood her intentions perfectly.
“You stay here in Tunkhala, Alexander, because if Nadia can, she will communicate with you. Call the embassy in India again,” she directed her grandson.
To sit there with his arms crossed was torture to Alex, but he realized that his grandmother was right. He went to the hotel, where there was a telephone, and was able to talk with the ambassador, who was a little more amiable than the first official had been, though he could promise nothing concrete. Alex also spoke with International Geographic i
n Washington. As he waited, he made a list of every detail he could think of, even the most insignificant, with the hope that it might lead to a trail.
As he thought about Eagle, his hands trembled. Why had the Sect of the Scorpion specifically chosen her? Why had they risked kidnapping a foreigner, something that would undoubtedly provoke an international incident? What was the significance of Tex Armadillo’s having shown up in the middle of the festival? Why was he in disguise? Were the masked men Blue Warriors, as Eagle believed? These and a thousand other questions were racing around in his mind, increasing his frustration.
It occurred to him that if he found Tex Armadillo, he might pick up the end of a thread that would lead him to Nadia, but he didn’t know where to begin. In search of any clue, he carefully reviewed every word he had exchanged with the man or had overheard when he followed him down into the cellars of the Red Fort in India. He jotted down his conclusions:
Tex Armadillo and the Sect of the Scorpion were connected.
Tex Armadillo had nothing to gain from kidnapping the girls. That was probably not his mission.
Events might have something to do with drug trafficking.
Capturing the girls did not fit in with a drug operation, because it attracted too much attention.
Until that moment, the Blue Warriors had never kidnapped girls within the Forbidden Kingdom. They must have a powerful reason for doing so now.
That reason just might be that they wanted to attract attention and distract the police and the armed forces.
If that was the case, they had a different objective. What? Where would they attack?
Alexander concluded that his list clarified very little: he was going in circles.
At about two in the afternoon, Alex received a telephone call from his grandmother Kate, who was in a village two hours from the capital. General Myar Kunglung’s soldiers had searched every community, every temple, monastery and home in search of the criminals. There was no new information, but there was no longer any doubt that the feared Blue Warriors were in the country. Several peasants had seen the black-clad horsemen from a distance.
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