CHAPTER 17
THE FRIENDSHIP INN opened as a family establishment.
After a decade of red ink, the owners were out of cash and going broke. A Chinese investor—he liked the location—took a flier and converted it to a sextel. The venture turned out to be solid gold. The Friendship has doubled its rack rate, generated huge profits, and consistently operates at full capacity. It’s been so successful the financier doubled down and opened another flesh market in Shigatse.
Tonight is a typical Saturday. The Friendship’s lobby is packed with people on the make. The hotel’s most influential guest has just arrived. The night manager greets him at the registration desk. “Good evening, Colonel.”
Sung Yang responds with a smutty grin. “I hope so.”
An enlisted man is standing behind the colonel. It’s the private’s first extracurricular assignment. He’s doing a full three-sixty sizing up the voluptuaries. The Western men stand out. Some are escorting females one-fourth their age to the hotel’s gourmet restaurant. Others are going directly to their rooms. The lobby bar is standing room only. Businessmen are grading and comping cocktails for the uncommitted talent. The entire ground floor is teeming with the hotel’s most lucrative clientele. Tibetan and Chinese call girls are trolling for males of any and all ethnicities.
“Would you like your usual room?”
The colonel nods. “It has everything I need.”
Sung is the hotel’s guardian angel. He doesn’t register or reach for a credit card. His visits are off the books and free of charge. Thanks to him, police leave the hotel’s sex trade alone, and local hoods don’t extort protection money.
The manager hands him two key cards. Sung gives one to the private and puts the other in his pants pocket. A bottle of champagne is sitting on the reception desk. The colonel picks it up. “I’ll bring this with me.”
“How about the martinis?”
“I’ll call and let you know.”
“What are your guests drinking?”
“Rum Breezers.”
“Any particular flavor?”
“Let’s go with raspberry.”
Sung leads his sentry up the staircase to the second floor. The private’s hands are full. In his left is a locked briefcase stuffed with the colonel’s sex paraphernalia and kiddie-porn DVDs. In his right is Sung’s computer bag.
The colonel usually comes to the hotel thirty minutes early. That gives him time to get aroused before the girls arrive. This evening he budgeted a full hour so he can preview a new BDSM film. He will start the evening by plying the girls with alcohol and ecstasy. Then he’ll replay the S&M video and inflict the same punishment. If a girl resists, her penance will be more severe. Grown women don’t arouse him, and he hasn’t touched one in years. But he doesn’t need Viagra. Champagne, martinis, and child pornography are the ideal treatment for his “Low-T” and ED problems. He has no trouble staying erect with girls thirteen and under.
When they reach Room 208, the private hands Sung his briefcase and computer. The colonel rests them against the wall, opens the door, and steps inside. Everything is where it should be. His champagne coupes and party snacks are spread across the table. There are extra pillows on the bed and the maid stashed a rollaway in the far corner. He leaves the room and closes the door behind him. Back in the hallway, he schools the private on his responsibilities. “No one enters my room unless I say so.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“That includes you, Soldier.”
“I understand, sir.”
“When the ladies’ escort leaves, knock on the door.”
“I will, Colonel.”
“Don’t touch the women. The punishment is thirty lashes.”
“I’ll keep my distance.”
The cavalcade of commandments continues.
“Stand outside room 206, not over here.”
The sentry is shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He appears to be overwhelmed by the whoring protocol, but gives the correct response. “Yes, sir.”
Sung is about to reenter his room when he turns around.
“Any questions, Private?”
“What if I have to relieve myself?”
“Next time, take a leak before you leave the base.”
“How about tonight, sir?”
“If you can’t wait, do it now.”
The soldier inserts his key and opens the door. Sung grabs him by the collar.
“You idiot. Not in my room. Go to the lobby.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Be back here in twenty minutes.”
Sung enters the room and goes through his usual security ritual—making sure the lock clicks, turning the dead bolt, and attaching the door chain. He flips his hat onto the bed and undresses. After hanging his clothes in the closet, he takes out the bathrobe and lays it on the spread. The closest outlet is behind the nightstand. The colonel bends over to plug in his computer. He stretches too far and tweaks his low back. Cursing the hotel, he limps to the table. He opens his briefcase and fondles his dildos and restraints.
The colonel smiles when he reads the lettering on the champagne bottle. Moet & Chandon is his favorite brand. He strips off the foil, undoes the wire cage, and twists the cork until it pops. Foam shoots upward and spills over the sides. The escaping champagne splashes onto his chest, runs down his abdomen, and reaches his legs.
Sung usually bathes just before the girls arrive. But the sticky liquid makes him uncomfortable and he decides to freshen up now. Grumbling about the overflow, he fills his coupe, then empties it in one long gulp. He sets down the glass, walks over to the bathroom, and turns the knob. Rather than go inside, he reverses course and returns to the table. He reaches into the briefcase, moves his handgun aside, and takes out a bottle of cologne.
Fragrance in hand, he returns to the bathroom and opens the door. He crosses the threshold and sees the writing on the mirror. The characters—Mandarin logograms—are drawn in red lipstick.
There are two guns aimed at your head. They have silencers. If you make a sound, you’re a dead man.
Sung drops the bottle. It breaks on impact and releases a treacly scent. The setting is as advertised. Two men are standing against the far wall pointing semiautomatic handguns at his head. Each pistol has a long cylinder attached to the barrel. The intruders are wearing ski masks and gloves. There is nothing distinctive about their clothes. Neither man says anything.
The taller of the two signals the colonel to get down. When he refuses, the shorter man presses his silencer against Sung’s forehead. That seems to convince the colonel they won’t be asking pretty please. One at a time, he drops to his knees. The shorter man circles behind him and lifts a blackjack out of his coat pocket. His swing has some real oomph behind it. The business end catches the colonel flush against his temple. He’s unconscious before he hits the floor. The intruders rush forward, stuff a rag in his mouth, and secure it with multiple layers of duct tape.
Four members of the team are waiting in the alley behind the hotel. They are doing their best to appear busy. Pedestrians don’t seem interested in the pair located near the middle of the narrow passageway. Both pretend to be loading furniture into a brown moving truck. They look the part in their loose pants and sweatshirts.
The perimeter ops—one at each end of the alley—are standing next to “Street Closed” signs waving orange flags. Each has blocked his entrance with traffic cones. They look more like construction workers than movers in their reflective vests and hard hats. But no one seems to notice.
The gunmen are in a hurry. They’ve already squeezed Sung’s body into a harness. The shorter man stretches the leg and chest straps and lines up the primary D-ring in the middle of his back. The taller one straightens the secondary post that will help them control the colonel’s descent. The intruders tighten the straps before locking the lines into the rings. The taller man envelops Sung in a quilted furniture pad. That will keep him out of sight during his ride.
The intruders aren’t concerned that the colonel’s lumpy body doesn’t look like a piece of furniture. Pedestrians will be too far away to notice.
It’s time to move their cargo. The taller man opens the window and points his thumb downward, then turns the other way and nods at the hallway, a reminder to his partner that there’s a sentry out there. They carry Sung to the window. After forcing him into a sitting position, they cup their hands under his thighs. Together they mouth, “One, two, three.”
The intruders bend their knees and strain to lift their cargo. The shorter man loses his grip. He whispers, “Sorry,” and they try again. This time they’re able to lift Sung onto the sill. But they can’t get the quilt flat enough to seat him securely. They hear a muffled noise coming from inside the pad. The taller man makes a circling motion with his hand indicating they need to speed things up.
They reach under the quilt, and this time they’re able to synchronize their efforts. They raise the colonel and place him squarely on the sill. The shorter man turns Sung counterclockwise and angles his body so that it edges downward. The men press their front feet against the wall, hold their lines taut, and allow gravity to do the rest.
The street-level movers catch the colonel before he touches the pavement. They unhook the lines and load Sung into the back of the truck. The mover wearing the Air Jordan Retros climbs into the cargo area. The other hops in the cab and drives slowly until they reach the north-side flagger. The flagger throws his gear into the back and closes the rear door. The brown moving truck exits onto the side street and merges with the eastbound traffic.
Another nondescript vehicle—a gray Shineray van—enters from the same end of the alley. It’s facing south when it stops under Room 208. The intruders slide down a rope and jump into the vehicle. After the remaining flagger is on board, the Shineray heads west.
The taller man examines what they threw in their duffel bag. He lays the colonel’s clothes, computer, and unlocked briefcase across the seat. They collected all of his personal effects except for the bottle of champagne and the hidden cameras. One was in the ceiling above the bed. The other was embedded in the wall at mattress level.
The intruders repack everything except the colonel’s briefcase. They open its aluminum shell and examine the four DVDs tucked inside.
One of them is labeled Best of Nima.
CHAPTER 18
THE DAWN BROKE clear and cold.
Sunrise is minutes away. But morning has already arrived. A kaleidoscope of colors—various shades of orange, red, and pink—has ignited the Himalayas’ eastern horizon. Four Fingers is on a Lhasa mountainside watching the crepuscular glow. The grizzled wisp of a man is sitting on a flat rock wrapped in a dirty blanket, smoking a cigarette, waiting for his teapot to whistle. He coaxes a last drag from his crumbling butt and flips it into the campfire.
He notices his client’s car ascending the rutted dirt road. Exhaust is flowing from the sedan’s tailpipe as it climbs the steep switchbacks. He rises stiffly and creaks toward the woodpile. Pine and cypress are what grow best up here. He adds several limbs of each to the blaze. Four Fingers—“Four” to his dwindling pool of contemporaries—is seldom here this early. But he doesn’t mind braving the chill. His client is paying him a handsome premium. He’ll earn ten times the normal full-day rate for three hours’ work.
Four Fingers clothed himself in layers, including two pairs of pants. His torn brown parka—his father wore it up here thirty years ago—covers a shapeless sweater, a green Pendleton, and a stained undershirt. He’s rubbing his full-length gloves together to stay warm. He’ll switch those out for a fingerless pair when he wields his cutting tools. His head sports the most distinctive part of his outfit, a floppy, khaki-colored fishing hat. He wears the blood-tinged relic halfway down his forehead and tilted to the right.
The teapot has finally reached a boil. Four Fingers tips the spout over his mug and pours until it’s three-quarters full. He drops a teabag into the steaming water, steps around the campfire, and checks on the car’s progress. It won’t be long until his client reaches his open-air facility.
Four Fingers is finishing breakfast when he hears brakes squeak.
The high-pitched noise is followed by the sound of shifting gravel. A car comes to a stop in the clearing near the campfire. Its engine goes silent. Four Fingers recognizes the rusty Toyota and knows its owner. Circling around the plume of smoke, he glances at his trapezoidal workplace. The rocky slab juts into thin air. If someone gets too close to the edge, it’s a long way down.
Norgay steps out of the Camry and ambles back to the trunk. He opens its warped lid, removes his toolbox, and heads toward the warmth. He stops at the woodpile and shares a fist bump with his shirttail uncle.
“I appreciate your help, old man. This is above and beyond.”
Four Fingers responds with a smile—or grimace—it isn’t clear which.
“How bad is the pain?”
Four Fingers wags his hand in a so-so motion. “Every day a little worse.”
“Does the morphine help?”
“Not much.”
Norgay hasn’t seen his uncle recently. He’s dismayed by his weight loss.
“Can’t you get something stronger?”
“Only the Chinese can afford the drugs I need.”
“How long do you have left?”
“A month or two.”
“I’m sorry, Four.”
“Don’t be. It’s my time.” The uncle’s voice is soft and relaxed. He could’ve been talking about someone else’s pancreatic cancer. Gumming a toothless smile, he asks, “Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“That’s understandable. How about some tea?”
Norgay buttons the top of his coat and tilts up the collar. “Thanks. The heat might clear my throat.” He’s studying Four’s face while they wait for the cups to cool. A confederate assured him everything was in order. Based on his uncle’s worried expression, Norgay isn’t so sure.
“Are you okay with the plan?”
Four Fingers slides his hands under his shirt and presses softly against his abdomen. “For the most part.”
Norgay throws his tea—cup and all—into the fire. “That’s not good enough. We all have to be fully committed.”
“Calm down. I’ll do my job.”
“What’s the matter?”
The uncle draws a circle in the air. “You’re painting a bulls-eye on your chest.”
“It’s already there. This just makes it darker.”
“Is this man worth dying for?”
“Today won’t make a difference. They’re already searching for me. I’ll be dead in two years, no matter what.”
Norgay carries his toolbox to the overhang. He reflects on what he’s given up. He has no contact with his family. His only friends are those dedicated to his cause. He rarely talks on the phone. If he needs one, he steals an unregistered one-and-done, speaks in code, and stays on the line for less than twenty seconds. Computers, email, and texting are out of the question. The Reds’ counterops are master eavesdroppers. He knows he can’t keep up with them.
He limits his time in Tibet. Most of the year he lives across its southern border in the wilds of Nepal, Bhutan, and Myanmar. Passports haven’t been a problem. He has several quality forgeries. He only uses them when it’s necessary to fly, drive, or ride a train into another country. Otherwise he treks through mountain passes, forests, and other remote places far from border checkpoints. He recharges his batteries in the Basque countryside with the separatists who trained him in the dark arts.
Norgay lifts a hammer out of the toolbox. He reaches into a different compartment for the other items he’ll need—two chains, a bag of mountaineering pitons, and a tape measure. He extends the power lock to the desired length and places the spikes where he’ll drive them into the rock. He strikes the far piton until it’s firmly anchored. Still on his knees, he crawls to the other spike a
nd hammers it into the slab. The pitons are laid out in a straight line, separated by the length of a premeasured human body.
He returns to the campfire and hands his uncle a rubber-banded stack of currency. Four Fingers stuffs the wad into his pocket and finishes sprinkling his leftover tsampa into the flames. The vultures have been circling since he cooked breakfast. The flock continues to grow as the aroma spreads across the sky.
Four Fingers works the stiffness out of his hands. All of his digits are mottled and diseased-looking, and both ring fingers terminate at the first knuckle. He jiggles the stumps as he repeats the story Norgay has heard several times before. “The Chinese laughed when they chopped these off. As it turned out, I was the lucky one in our family. They tortured my parents with cattle prods and shot my older brother in the face.”
Norgay spits into the campfire. “The Chinese think we’re lower than animals.” He hasn’t told Four Fingers—or anyone else—that PLA soldiers sexually abused him when he was a boy. The rapes began a week before his eighth birthday and went on for years.
A car door closes and a short man walks to the back of the Camry.
“Who’s he?” the uncle asks.
“My partner Gato.”
“Strange name.”
“It’s Spanish for Cat.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“He’s quick and always lands on his feet.”
“How much does he know?”
“Everything. He helped check our guest out of the hotel.”
“How did you do that?”
“Through a second-story window.”
The Spaniard gets what he needed from the trunk, opens the right rear door, and extracts a man from his seat. The captive—he’s shackled hand and foot—is unclothed except for shoes and a black hood. Gato tightens the rope tied around the shivering man’s waist. Walking in front of him, he tugs on the line and they start moving forward. The man is having trouble staying upright and they don’t make much progress. After almost falling, the captive asks a question in Chinese.
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