Xinjiang has become a hot destination for Global Reach. The People’s Republic of China doesn’t allow foreign oil companies to buy equity stakes in its natural wealth. But the PRC needs outside consultants to supervise its corrupt officials and apply the cutting-edge technologies the Reds haven’t yet stolen.
During breakfast, the group’s tour guide previewed the train’s last stop.
“When you awaken tomorrow, we’ll be in Kashgar, the farthest inland city on earth. It’s the ethnic heart of Xinjiang Province. We’ll spend the morning at the city’s East Gate Bazaar. The market has been open since 1 BC. Its four thousand booths have something for everyone. That’s also true of its Turkic cuisine. During our sit-down lunch, you can sample a wide variety of kebabs and other native delicacies.”
An engineer’s wife raised her hand.
“Yes, madam. Question?”
“I’ve enjoyed visiting local families. Can we do that in Kashgar?”
“That isn’t possible in southern Xinjiang.”
“Why not?”
“The local people are unhappy.”
“About what?”
“Political matters.”
“That shouldn’t affect us.”
“We’re taking precautions anyway.”
A different spouse asked, “Are we in danger out here?”
“We’ve never had a problem.”
The projector advanced the next slide. Several wives gasped at the picture of a Uighur horseman waving a Yengisar dagger. The guide turned around to see what caused their reaction. The room continued to buzz after she cut the power.
Brannigan isn’t thinking about tomorrow’s activities.
The expedition leader, and its only American engineer, has gone fetal. Drugs and rest haven’t eased his pain. Even before his headache, he wasn’t particularly excited about the Kashgar visit. He’s never been there, and has a business-only interest in the Far East’s Far West. His knowledge of Xinjiang Province is limited: it forms China’s border with the Central Asian republics; native Uighurs call themselves WEEgores; and Marco Polo visited the area in the thirteenth century. He was already aware of what the guide told them. The Uighurs don’t get along with the Han Chinese.
He feels like someone jammed an ice pick through his right eye. It’s time to upgrade his medication. Shifting onto his right side, he lifts a corner of his sleeping mask. Bile starts shooting up his throat. He mutters, “Not again,” swallows the acid, and sends it back to his stomach. Some of it penetrated his nasal cavity. He sniffs several times in a futile attempt to eliminate the sulfuric smell.
He rolls to the edge of the bed and lays his mask on the pillow. The shades are down but the margins aren’t tight. Sunlight leaks into his compartment and aggravates his headache and stomach pain. He is mildly encouraged by the readout on his clock. He’ll have time to rally before tonight’s gala celebration.
He runs his hand across the nightstand. Then again closer to the lamp. His medications aren’t there. He tries the top drawer. His fingers get tangled in a charging cord before they bump into his pharmaceutical pouch. He unzips the kit, grabs a syringe, and primes it. He is in the buff and has no trouble selecting the proper injection site, the middle third of his thigh. The moment the plunger delivers the medicine he feels a modicum of relief—even though the juice hasn’t kicked in yet. His psychiatrist attributes these reactions to his placebic personality.
This wasn’t supposed to be his project. It landed in his lap when his chief of Asian operations had a family emergency. He doesn’t regret the long journey. Kylie has him flying ten feet off the ground. She is on his mind again. They’ve only been together a week, but he’ll miss her when this assignment ends.
He cautions himself to be realistic. Once they complete their work, he’ll go back to New York, and Kylie will return to Australia. It’s unlikely their professional paths will cross. Most of her clients are in Southeast Asia, the Indian subcontinent, or Down Under. Other than servicing his Chinese business, he directs his energies elsewhere.
He won’t have time to visit her. When he isn’t working at his Manhattan headquarters, he is traveling to the company’s Houston and San Francisco offices or to far-flung countries all over the world. Sydney wouldn’t work as his home base, and he can’t ask Kylie to uproot herself and live in Manhattan. She would be living alone most of the time. He knows her well enough to be sure of one thing. She would never put up with an absentee lover.
How will they end it? He dreads the thought. Right now he has a more immediate problem. He has already vomited twice, but his stomach is at it again. Sipping ginger ale sometimes eases his gastric distress. He considers making a run to the snack alcove at the end of his sleeper car. After mulling it over, he decides not to leave his compartment. The other members of his group have returned to the train. He can’t let anyone see him like this.
He reaches for the trash can, but it’s too far away. He stops moving and instinctively holds his breath when someone knocks on the door. Realizing no one’s hearing is that sensitive, he allows himself to exhale.
“Michael, it’s me, Kylie.”
When he doesn’t answer, she asks, “How is your headache?”
Another woman greets her before she has a chance to follow up. He recognizes the voice. It belongs to one of the European wives.
“Congratulations, Kylie. You were made for each other.”
“Is it that obvious?”
Brannigan is relieved when the other woman laughs. He won’t have to pretend anymore. He’s tried to be discreet about their coupling but obviously fooled no one.
CHAPTER 3
THE FIERY SUICIDE has paralyzed Beijing.
President Lao is furious. The army, secret service, and police are missing in action. His commanders are dumbstruck and no one is in control. The chaos is worst near the grandstand. The people who saw what happened are in a state of panic. They’re trampling one another in their haste to get away.
Soldiers and police are finally beginning to respond. A unit of elite troops and frontline Baobiao are running at full speed toward the suicide. Technicians in bomb suits are approaching more carefully.
The president snaps at General Ren. “What are your men doing?”
“Disposing of the body.”
“That’s the coroner’s job, not yours. Set up a perimeter and search for conspirators. Preferably before they escape.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jin Kai touches the president’s arm. “I scheduled an emergency meeting.”
“Make sure our Tibet people are there.”
“Already on their way, Mr. President.”
The name “Sadat” jumps into Lao’s mind. The video of the Cairo assassination left an indelible impression, mostly because it was so improbable. Egypt’s leader was at a victory parade when he was shot. He was on a military grandstand saluting the soldiers who murdered him. Recalling they had watched the film together, the president asks Jin, “Does this seem familiar?”
“We aren’t in the Middle East.”
“Then why did you think of it?”
“Because I knew you would.”
The president bypasses General Ren and speaks directly to his bodyguards. “The suicide is a diversion.”
The senior Baobiao replies, “I’m on that, sir.” He exchanges hand signals with the other guards and reports back, “No obvious hostiles.” He again points to the floor pan. “Mr. President, please. We need to guarantee your safety.”
The guard is about to open the compartment when the president waves him off a second time. Lao is convinced an assassin who gets inside the limousine will kill him no matter where he secretes himself. Avoiding vehicle penetration altogether is the only strategy that makes sense. He feels safer directing that effort than hiding. Even if it weren’t true, he would rather die than survive inside the protective well. The media would mock a president who was so frightened he didn’t protect the women and children he swore to defend.
/> The president wonders whether he missed a schism within his army. It’s usually disgruntled colonels, stuck behind fat-cat generals, who organize a putsch. He has the uneasy feeling something else is about to happen. If the suicide is only a distraction, he expects the real attack to happen soon.
The president’s jaw hurts and this morning’s chest pain is back. It’s radiating into his left arm. The worst part is the pressure. It feels like a vise is crushing his heart. “Damn angina,” he mutters to himself. He can’t think of a worse time for his ticker to act up. Rubbing his chest with his left hand, Lao reaches inside his coat pocket with his right. He opens a small container and slips a white pill under his tongue.
The Baobiao guarding the left door twitches. Calling out, “Nine o’clock!” he gets down on his knees and raises his rifle.
The president doesn’t need the monitor. The action is outside his left rear window. “It can’t be,” he says, when he sees a girl running toward his limousine.
The child is dressed in a green-plaid uniform with matching kneesocks. With everyone looking at the front of the motorcade, she darted into the street unimpeded. She’s coming right at him.
“No shooting, General. Tell everyone else.”
“We should drive away, sir.”
“I don’t run away from children.”
Lao notices her features and dark complexion. He suspects she is Tibetan—making it even more likely the suicide was a monk.
The girl is holding a metal can in her left hand. She slows down, tightens her grip, and squirts liquid over her head and shoulders. She redirects the nozzle and soaks her upper body. Raising the can to ear level, she sloshes the liquid as if gauging how much is left. She comes to a full stop, tilts her head back, and injects accelerant into her mouth.
The girl reaches into her sweater pocket—she has become increasingly robotic—and pulls out a plastic lighter. She rolls the spark wheel into the ignition button and holds it there. The gas ignites and produces a steady flame. She rubs the lighter against her chest. In an instant, she is on fire. The flames spread quickly to her head and arms, down her trunk, all the way to her legs and feet. Her thick black hair is burning, and in a few seconds mostly gone. The girl lurches forward. He thinks she must be drugged.
Out of the corner of his eye the president sees a member of the CNN crew running toward the girl with a shoulder-mounted camera. The photographer sprints past a group of soldiers. Risking his life for a slam-dunk Pulitzer, he films the entire way. The spectators are reacting more conservatively, but many are recording the event on their digital phones and cameras.
The girl drops the can and then the lighter. She extends her arms. They’re burning from thumb to thumb. She continues walking toward the president’s limousine. Five meters from the back door, she executes a half pirouette. She turns to the cameraman and sticks a burning finger into her mouth. Her face ignites. She takes a deep breath, holds it, and then exhales. Her throat expels a torrent of fire.
She redirects her attention to the president’s car. Lao detects what appears to be a wry smile on what remains of her mouth. She wobbles, lurches to her left, and falls onto her knees. The girl—she can’t be more than one and a half meters tall—pushes her hand against the pavement, regains her balance, and stands up. She shuffles forward until she’s close enough to touch the limousine. The bodyguards are ramped up and itching to exterminate the threat. They’re pointing their handguns at her chest when Lao yells, “Leave the girl alone.”
The president can’t believe what he’s seeing. The teenager has outsmarted him, his counterintelligence team, and the secret service. The girl is seemingly dead on her feet until an agonal movement—it’s her last—thrusts her against his car door.
Her arms are like mush, and her skin is sloughing off in clumps. She’s glued to the car, dying inch by excruciating inch. When no additional collaborators materialize, Lao assumes she is the final act of a Tibetan morality play. He’s lost confidence in his security team and decides to manage the aftermath himself.
“Do we have any blankets?”
Ren shrugs his shoulders and looks at the senior bodyguard. The Baobiao answers, “They’re in the trunk. Should I get one?”
“Stay here. I’ll do it.”
The senior guard moves toward the president. “Please, sir. Don’t leave the car.” Lao pushes his hand away.
“Unlock your door, General.”
Ren stammers, “Why, Mr. President?”
“Because our friend is attached to the other one.”
The general releases the lock and steps out of the limousine.
The president raises his voice above the din of police sirens, engines, and human commotion. “Come with me to the trunk.”
Behind the car, he asks, “How did she know?”
“Know what, Mr. President?”
“There are a dozen limousines in the motorcade.”
“Yes, sir. We added two for this event.”
“We rotate their order every time.”
“Today was no different.”
Lao pops the trunk and takes out one of the gray blankets stacked along the right edge. “Then how did she know I was in this one?”
Ren’s Adam’s apple jumps. “We’ll look into that, sir.”
The president walks toward the girl’s still-upright body. Ren is a step behind when they reach her. Lao turns on his heel and faces the general. “I don’t need you here. Go to the grandstand . . .” He pauses while he wraps the blanket around the girl and tamps down the remaining flames. She’s still smoldering when he picks her up, cradles her in his arms, and heads toward a CNN truck. The crew steps aside and he lays her on the pavement.
Ren holds a handkerchief against his nose and mouth. He bends forward and vomits into the linen. The second time, the emesis slops onto his sleeve. The president returns to the trunk. He comes back with an additional blanket and covers the girl from neck to toe. A pair of EMTs has just arrived. They rush to the girl’s side and kneel next to her. One inserts a needle into her hip while the other checks her pulse.
The president finishes his instructions to the general.
“Director Wei is in the front row.”
Ren tosses his handkerchief on the pavement.
“I know where he is, Mr. President.”
“Bring him to the West Garden.”
“What should I tell him?”
“That you’re acting on my orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My secretary will be there when you arrive. She’ll hand you his resignation letter. When the director signs it, give it back to her. She’ll take care of the rest.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
“Don’t let Comrade Wei return to his office.”
“Should I arrest him?”
“That won’t be necessary—he’s not going to prison. But make sure the security officer collects his keys and identification card on the way out. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get going.”
Lao massages his chest as he moves closer to the girl. The medics stop their resuscitation efforts and pull the top blanket over her head.
When the president walks toward his limousine, he sees Ren meandering toward the grandstand. Lao calls out, “General, one more thing.”
Ren’s face is ashen by the time the president reaches him.
“My secretary will deliver two resignation letters.”
“Today wasn’t my fault—”
“Your name will be on the second.”
CHAPTER 4
THE COLONEL PUNCHES the abbot in the face.
The old man is out cold. He drops like a sack of tsampa. His head makes a crumping sound as it hits the floor. Blood is flowing from his nose and mouth.
Colonel Sung Yang is angry at all things Tibetan—Buddhism, his transfer from Beijing to Lhasa, and what his new assignment signifies. His appointment as director of Tibetan counterintelligence was a late
ral move, not a promotion. This posting proves what he feared. He’ll never be a general. When he came to Tibet, Sung left his ailing wife behind and found new ways to gratify himself.
The Beijing suicides have prompted a massive Chinese response in the Tibet Autonomous Region. The People’s Liberation Army is reacting most aggressively in Lhasa. Its rapid mobilization ruined the colonel’s plans. He is stuck at Drepung Monastery instead of getting his rocks off in Old Town with three teenage virgins. The girls will be sound asleep by the time he leaves the monastery.
The abbot’s eyes have begun to flicker. He tries but can’t stand up. Sung bends over and picks him up by the elbows. The colonel is about to lay the abbot on his desk but isn’t able to hold the sagging body long enough to do it. Sung groans in pain as he reaches for his low back. He glares at the other ascetics and drops the abbot on the floor.
The monks assembled in the abbot’s office are suspected of plotting this afternoon’s suicides. The colonel’s second-in-command—a young lieutenant—and five soldiers are herding them like water buffalo.
A novitiate comes forward. He helps the abbot get to his feet.
“Put him down,” the colonel growls, “and get back with the others.”
The troops grip their holsters. One of them approaches the novitiate. He lets go of his superior and hides behind an older monk. The abbot falls forward and lands in a heap. His broken nose is wedged against the floor.
The PLA has occupied all the monasteries in central Tibet. Soldiers rushed into Lhasa from nearby barracks shortly after the motorcade ended. They encircled the provincial capital and set up checkpoints on every major downtown street. Ethnic Tibetans can’t enter or exit Lhasa until the army sounds the all-clear siren.
The Chinese focused on Drepung Monastery once they learned the burned man was one of its monks. Identifying Gendun Phintso was relatively simple. Because of the Fighting Monks’ past insurrections, the Communists collect blood samples from all of Tibet’s monastics. Maintaining the registry is manageable. The Red Guards destroyed most Buddhist monasteries during the Cultural Revolution, and Mao’s successors took it from there, strictly limiting the number of Tibet’s monks to fifty thousand. While his body was still warm, PLA geneticists ordered stat blood work on Gendun’s charred remains. They got a DNA match.
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