Losang endangered himself by rushing to the abbot’s aid. But he withstood his struggle session and passed his lie-detector test. The examiner wasn’t aware he was subjected to a polygraph test three years ago. Losang had advance notice of the earlier test, was coached by another monk, and studied how to beat it on the Internet. He learned how to control his bodily functions and lie convincingly about using countermeasures.
He was fortunate to be the first one interrogated. The technician was still getting his act together and didn’t ask about the photograph of his aunt and uncle. Another monk told Losang how the Chinese acquired the picture. It was inside the backpack the female suicide left on the curb. He can’t write his family about the tragic news. That would be a death wish. He wouldn’t contact them now anyway. First he needs to uncover the details about the death of his uncle’s only daughter. He can’t do that by himself. The Chinese have locked down the monastery for the foreseeable future.
The box truck is backing into the monastery’s loading dock.
Losang is on the top landing. He’s assisting the driver park the green cutaway between two other vehicles. The driver stops his truck when the monk raises his hand and applies the parking brake. Getting out of the cab, he adjusts his Everest Feed & Seed cap. He hops up the stairs and hands a clipboard and a pen to the monk.
“Will you sign for the delivery?”
“Certainly.” Losang fakes a signature on the blank invoice. He attaches the pen to the clipboard and hands it back to the driver.
“Follow me inside. We’ll organize your order.”
The driver rolls up the door then closes it behind them. The light is already on. The driver leads the monk around several stacks of pallets. When they reach the front of the cargo area, he leans against the wall. Losang sits across from him on a shipping crate.
The monk speaks first. “I think of you often.”
“This isn’t the time for a reunion.”
“Your associate called you Norgay.”
“He shouldn’t have.”
“When did you start using that name?”
“Forget you heard it.”
“Contacting you was difficult.”
“That’s important in my business.”
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Why did you ask for a meeting?”
“One of my cousins died.”
“I’m sorry. Which one?”
“Nima. She was born after you left.”
“How old was she?”
“Thirteen.”
“Your family—”
“They don’t know.”
“Don’t know—where did she die?”
“Beijing. She and a monk set themselves on fire.”
“During the American summit?”
“Nima was the girl.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Neither did I, but it’s true.”
“How did she get involved?”
“I was hoping you heard something.”
“Weren’t you aware of her plan?”
“Not until the soldiers came.”
Norgay is frustrated with the pace of the conversation. He tries to move things along. “Is that why I’m here?”
“I had nowhere else to turn.”
“Do you want me to investigate?”
“It’s a lot to ask.”
“Yes it is.”
“I shouldn’t have contacted you.”
Norgay hangs his hat on a stabilizer hook and runs his fingers through his hair. His black mane makes the monk’s buzz cut look even shorter.
“Why not? We were best friends.”
“It might be dangerous.”
“So is getting out of bed in the morning.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Her parents deserve an answer.”
“How can I repay you?”
“You can’t.”
“I’ll pray for you.”
Norgay laughs.
“What’s so funny?”
“Do you know my occupation?”
“They say you’re an outlaw.”
“I’m worse than that.”
“It’s not too late to change.”
“I take it you don’t approve.”
“How could I?”
“Who are you to talk?”
“I don’t break the law.”
“You live off the poor.”
“We pray for them.”
“You keep the country backward.”
“Why are you so—”
Norgay hears someone outside the truck speaking Chinese. He gets down on one knee, grips the pistol inside his pocket, and whispers, “It’s time for me to leave. Let’s finish the delivery.”
“Before we go outside—”
Norgay raises a shushing finger. The monk lowers his voice.
“—Tell me how I can help?”
“By staying out of the way.”
“If you change your mind—”
“I won’t. Stop whatever you’re doing.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“There’s something else.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll have no input.”
“On what?”
“Anything.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“I’ll have no say?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Why can’t I participate?”
“Because I won’t allow it.”
“Tell me why.”
“Do you accept my terms? Yes or no.”
The monk hesitates. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes. I agree.”
Norgay loads his hand truck. “I need to get going.”
“How will I learn what happened?”
“A beggar will tell you.”
“A pilgrim?”
“He’ll look the part.”
“How will I know it’s him?”
“He’ll request a meeting in the Sakyamuni Chapel.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Only if the Chinese hang us together.”
“Then I better give you this now.”
Losang reaches for the envelope tucked inside his robe. Norgay shakes his head. “I won’t accept money.”
“That’s good. I don’t have any.”
“What are you giving me?”
“Something to help you find the answers.”
The dust in Jiang Shìlín’s Lhasa office is two centimeters deep.
The general hasn’t noticed. He’s consumed with the president’s deadline, and worried about his own future. His workload is about to increase. It’s already more than he can handle. He’ll soon be living in his other pressure cooker cleaning up the mess in the west. His first task will be to apprehend, mutilate, and execute the men who bombed the Silk Road train. He’ll teach Xinjiang’s Muslims the hardest of lessons. He won’t respond with an eye for an eye. His brutality will greatly exceed theirs.
Jiang selected Colonel Sung Yang to spearhead the Lhasa investigation. That lasted all of one day. It was obvious the colonel had no energy. The time constraints have forced the general to run the operation himself. His most reliable assets are a group of ethnic Tibetans. All are master infiltrators and seasoned killers. He has them working around the clock to identify the dead girl.
He determined that she was Tibetan before he left Beijing. Her DNA didn’t match samples in the national registry. But she had the EGLN1 Tibetan high-altitude gene. That and the dead monk’s Drepung connection led him here. The lack of contrary evidence supports his theory that Gendun met the girl in East Lhasa.
One of his bone crushers opens the door. The ethnic-Tibetan captain storms into the office and parks himself in front of the general’s desk.
“Did you forget how to knock?”
The captain spits out his toothpick. “I never learned.”
<
br /> “It’s a nice day. Why are you indoors?”
“We may be on to something, sir.”
“What’s your latest dead end?”
“A punk is slinking around the whorehouses.”
“That’s a lead? Old Town is full of them.”
“This one is flashing a girl’s photograph.”
“He’s probably just another flesh peddler.”
“I don’t think so. He isn’t pimping her.”
Jiang is suffering through another nicotine relapse. After exhaling cigarette smoke he asks, “Is she the suicide?”
“We’re not that far along.”
“I’m tired of that answer. Why not?”
“Everyone denies knowing her.”
“How about the punk? Someone must be able to ID him.”
“Same response.”
“Has he paid them off?”
“He doesn’t have to. Everyone is afraid of him.”
“They need to be more worried about you. Turn up the heat.”
“We already have. But I’ll get out my blowtorch.”
“Did you get a physical description?”
The captain checks his notepad. “We only found one witness willing to talk. She described him as a Tibetan male, taller than average, mid-twenties to early thirties. He has whiskers under his bottom lip.”
The general loses interest. “He isn’t a Fighting Monk. Not if your physical description is accurate. Are the Buddhists teaming up with the seculars?”
“That’ll never happen, sir.” The captain opens his counterfeit Swiss Army knife and scrapes clotted blood from underneath his fingernails. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you that.”
“I’m deeply honored.”
“If we withdrew our troops—”
“Stop talking nonsense.”
“—The robes and atheists would tear each other apart.”
“Back to your investigation”—Jiang lights another cigarette and looks out the window—“Your person of interest isn’t trying to identify the girl. Her recruiters already know her name and current address. This guy is after something else.”
CHAPTER 13
BRANNIGAN IS OUTSIDE Matilda International Hospital.
He does a double take as he approaches its main pavilion. The pink palace is a throwback to Hong Kong’s colonial past. The facility seems less a medical center than a resort for rich people who have something unwanted in common.
The scenery to the north is breathtaking. Standing on the Peak of Hong Kong, he has an unobstructed view of Victoria Harbor, Kowloon, and the New Territories. The former British enclave boasts one skyscraper after another. Sampans, junks, and modern vessels of every size and shape populate the surrounding waterway.
Brannigan leaves the scenic lookout and hobbles toward the main entrance. The short uphill walk has him sweating and struggling for air. An octogenarian overtakes him near the front doors. Spry despite her cane, she seems confused about whether he’s a patient or a visitor. He decides to wait outside and sit down for a few minutes. The benches are full so he lowers himself onto the pony wall separating the walkway from a below-grade parking lot.
The doctors at Peking Union Medical College didn’t chart his departure as being against medical advice. But they weren’t pleased when he rejected their recommendation to stay longer. His attending physician warned him not to fly so soon. She was only partially successful. Brannigan agreed to delay his US flight. He wouldn’t even discuss rescheduling his Hong Kong trip.
He arrived yesterday afternoon. The city’s top pulmonolo-gist examined him earlier this morning. The doctor confirmed what Brannigan already knew. The plane ride didn’t impede his recovery. His damaged lung is on the mend and functioning normally.
He had an earlier kerfuffle with Chinese doctors.
It occurred on the night of the derailment. The rescue team was triaging the victims in the Taklamakan Desert when Brannigan confronted one of the physicians.
“I’m traveling with the woman on the backboard.”
“We haven’t organized the flights that way.”
“Then redo your passenger list. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“You need to follow orders.”
“Only if they make sense.”
The ER doctor said, “Hold on,” and texted the lead trauma specialist. The surgeon stopped what he was doing and trotted over. Covered in blood, he changed gloves and checked Kylie’s status. He recorded her vital signs on his sleeve before standing up and talking to Brannigan. “You’ll both be on the first flight to Urumqi.”
“From there fly us nonstop to Beijing.”
The surgeon’s tone hardened. “We’ve put a lot of people in body bags. I won’t add Ms. Ryan to the list. She wouldn’t survive a long flight.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Sure enough that I won’t risk it.” The surgeon put his hand on Brannigan’s uninjured shoulder. “Let me give you another shot of Valium.”
“I was out of line.”
“It’s all right. You’ve had a rough night.”
The nurse reached into her bag and took out a syringe. She rolled up Brannigan’s sleeve and injected a benzo into his upper arm.
He met Kylie’s father in Urumqi. Bryce Ryan was airborne on his Bombardier BD-700 two hours after learning of the attack. Other than a precautionary landing to refuel, his jet flew nonstop to Xinjiang’s largest city. Ryan brought TBI specialists from Stanford Medical School at God knows what expense. The seven-person team consisted of a neurosurgeon, neurologist, two anesthesiologists, and three senior nurses. Ryan instructed them to transfer Kylie to Hong Kong as soon as she stabilized.
His hospitalizations weren’t as dramatic.
What he remembers most is what occurred in Beijing. Lao Ming entered his room without a bodyguard. He spoke English like it was his first language.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Brannigan?”
“My tai chi is improving.”
“You’ll have to show me when you get better.”
“Maybe we can go on tour together.”
“Are you getting enough therapy?”
“Three sessions a day.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will, Mr. President. Thanks for visiting.”
“We’ll capture the murderers who did this.”
Brannigan hadn’t expected to hear the future tense.
“They’re still on the loose?”
“Unfortunately, that’s correct. A dust storm north of Kashgar erased their tire tracks.”
Brannigan regretted putting the president on the spot. He tried to make up for it.
“I appreciate the excellent medical care.”
Three Beijing specialists—a pulmonologist, interventional radiologist, and thoracic surgeon—flew to Urumqi, repaired his lung, and stayed there until he left. The president’s physicians continue to supervise his care in the capital.
Lao stood up and shook his hand. “It’s the least I can do.”
Brannigan is still sitting on the masonry wall.
He’s finishing an equal-breathing exercise. His Beijing PM&R said it would steady his pulse and respirations. She was right. His pulse has already slowed down. He looks at the two pieces of paper he brought with him. The top sheet is a list of Victoria’s best physical therapists. He expected to have spare time in Hong Kong and asked the physiatrist to give him five names. Brannigan runs his finger down the page. One of them works at MIH. He’ll schedule a session with him after visiting Kylie.
The other document catalogs the diagnoses on his discharge summary:
• Bruising head to toe
• Mild concussion
• Episodes of loss of consciousness
• Left lung pneumothorax and mild hemothorax
• Displaced fractures of five left lateral and posterior ribs
• Dislocated left shoulder
• Hairline non-displaced fracture of the lef
t humerus
• Frayed vs. torn medial meniscus left knee
• Grade 2 sprain of left ACL and MCL
He underwent a thoracentesis while he was in Urumqi. It was successful. His lung reinflated after they evacuated the blood in his pleural cavity. The doctors said he probably wouldn’t need an additional procedure.
Most of his other injuries won’t require surgery. He’ll defer further treatment on his knee and shoulder until he gets back to New York. He may need an arthroscopic repair of his medial meniscus. The Beijing doctors said his ACL and MCL tears were minor. They should scar over and heal on their own.
The desert trauma team snapped his left shoulder back into place. So far that’s been sufficient. His Manhattan orthopedist reviewed the upper extremity films and prescribed strengthening exercises. Brannigan will undergo a physical capacities examination in six months. They’ll reevaluate his status after reviewing the results.
He fared better than many other passengers. Five engineers and four of their wives died in the train wreck. One of the engineers is still in critical condition. Most of the survivors were seriously injured. Some will have permanent residuals. He doesn’t know how many Chinese were killed. Neither the government nor the local press reported the incident. He’s learned most of what he knows from Harry Dyer and the Western media.
Harry had briefed him inside the Beijing Airport garage. They were in a dead spot surrounded by thick concrete walls.
“We were right about those pops. They shot the locomotive engineers. Each took a single round in the center of his chest.”
“Did anyone see the terrorists?”
“One of the Japanese wives.”
“Brave woman. I kept my eyes shut.”
“She tried but they wouldn’t stay closed.”
“What does she remember?”
“Two men dressed in camo outfits. They had dark skullcaps and beards.”
“I’m surprised they left her alone.”
“It was dark,” Harry said. “They probably didn’t know she saw them.”
“What else did you find out?”
“The MPs recovered all of the passengers’ jewelry and valuables. The bombers are zealots, not common criminals.” Harry paused to open a diagram of the crime scene. He pointed to a circled area. “They didn’t leave anything to chance. They ripped out the spikes three hundred yards down the tracks. We would’ve derailed even if the bombs hadn’t detonated.”
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