by John Burdett
29
I’m supposed to check out the other hotel at the top of Thamel, where the English girl Mary Smith claims she first made contact with the Thai network run by none other than our very own Colonel Vikorn.
But I can’t summon any enthusiasm for another trek around Thamel and decide not to follow up on the other guesthouse that Mary Smith mentioned. I have come to the realization that most of my psychic energy today will be spent resisting the temptation to call Tara on her cell phone, or—worse—go visit her on set at Bakhtapur. Now, wouldn’t that be the last word in adolescent needy? What’s really annoying is the tone of genuine compassion when she said, Sexual slavery is the last thing I need—in a motherly tone. It was as if she’d dressed me badly for school and now I was going to be uncomfortable all day. I’m caught between indignant rage and erotic fascination. I have never known a woman like her. Of course, I want to see her again. Best would be for her to be in the needy mode, but that is too much to hope for in this Himalayan town where the attention is directed skyward. The easiest thing of all would be to go see Tietsin for some kind of confrontation: we really can’t have him going around busting our mules to General Zinna. But when I make another visit to Bodnath, and look around the teahouse where he holds his seminars, there is no sign of him. It’s starting to look as if I have a day to myself and, strange to relate, my superstitious Asian genes will not let me leave without another three and a half turns of the brass.
So I’m halfway through the first round, spinning the wheels like there is no tomorrow—there never is—following behind a couple of nattering Tibetan nuns who are creeping steadily up on some inexpert Scandinavian backpackers who keep stopping to make sure they didn’t miss a wheel, when my legs start to feel heavy. It is an extraordinary moment; the strength suddenly leaves my body, and I feel about a hundred years old. Most scary is the way my mental environment starts to change. The white stupa is getting blacker, people disappear. In a moment of extreme physical weakness I lean against the stupa, and my cell phone rings. I had forgotten to turn it off.
“Get the hell out of there, right now.”
“What?”
“You’re way too weak for this. The stupa is draining you. If you don’t believe me, take one good look at it.”
I do so and have the impression, suddenly, of being able to look into its interior—the small dingy river, the ghouls taking charge of souls, the pyramid of enlightenment with those of blackest karma at the bottom and the translucent at the top—and I realize how profoundly I am being sucked in.
“There’s no point going to the Far Shore if you’re never going to come back—what’s the use of that? Come away from the stupa.”
I have to physically push myself away from the wall of the stupa, and I stagger somewhat until I’m a good ten feet away, when my strength starts to return. I’m still holding the phone to my ear. “Where are you?”
“Look up; I’m standing on top of the stupa.”
I look up. There is no one on top of the stupa; its slope toward the top is too steep, and there is no place to stand. It would be quite outlandish to see anyone up there. “No you’re not, you’re just doing my head in.”
He adds a note of extreme exasperation when he says, “You’re about to be sucked into death without a protest, but you can’t see beyond the conventional. Look again.”
I make a face at the phone, look up again. Now I see there are white stairs which lead up the breast-shaped mound. And there he is, right on the top, waving his stump just for me. Then, also just for me, he turns, lowers his pants, and moons me. To my own astonishment I find this hilarious and burst out laughing. My laughter is quickly followed by tears.
“You’re hysterical,” Tietsin says, “which is the worst state of mind. Better to be depressed, or even grimly suicidal. I can work with those states. Hysterical is no good. Calm down. Go and have a beer.”
“Will you tell me where you are?” I’m suddenly irritated. He is not really on top of the stupa; I just sneaked another look, and there was nobody there. It’s some kind of telepathy he’s using.
“Never mind where I am—you’d be too shocked to know. Suppose I tell you I’m in bed with Tara—how about that?”
I gasp as if I’ve been kicked in the gut. “So she does work for you?”
A tut-tut. “She does no such thing. I’ve never heard of her before. She called me because she is a responsible yogin who got worried about you after you told her you were one of mine. She’s afraid you’re way too open at the moment and that little bout with her last night could kill you. You’re already badly weakened. You need to know, female yogins have something extra we don’t have, and they’re not responsible for the effects they have on us. You just don’t understand the forces you’re working with. You don’t have the protection of ordinary people—you lost that when we initiated you—and you’re not strong enough to live the dharma all on your own.”
“I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“Now you’re lying. You don’t want to understand because the implications are too great for your fragile worldview. You thought you would take a little sex vacation yesterday, crawl into the first womb that came your way, get all gooey and lovey, just like a wandering ghost in search of a body, any body, to escape the spiritual anguish—and start the whole psychotic process of birth and death all over again. Stop kidding yourself. You’ve left a big piece of yourself between her legs. If she wanted, she could crush you like a bug. Instead she comes to me, worried about you. If I were you, I would make amends to her.”
“But I didn’t do anything. She used me.”
“Up to you. Etiquette can be important, though. The guardians like good manners. And what the hell are you doing in Kathmandu anyway? Do you realize how unprofessional this is, for you and me to be in the same town when the deal is being processed? We’re delivering next week.”
“Well, maybe your behavior is less than professional, too,” I mutter. “The main reason I’m here is I want to know who your informants are, the ones who tell you who is carrying for who in Thailand. Zinna and Vikorn are quite upset.”
“My informants? Why didn’t you ask before? One’s called Narayan, the other’s Shah.”
To my astonishment and rage, he has suddenly closed his phone. I stare at my own for a moment, then go to the phone’s log to try to find the number he was using, but the log shows it as an anonymous call. Stumped, I close my phone and slide it into my pocket. This has the effect of triggering another bout of paranoia, because I feel diminished without the gadget in my hand.
Now I’m recovering from the moment and my energy is returning. I know Tietsin is right: I have to get away from the stupa. Its great, looming, sepulchral whiteness is too much, and when I look at it I start to feel ill all over again. With no doubt in my heart this time, I have a cab drive me to the Thai Airways offices on Durber Marg, where I book myself on the next plane to Bangkok.
When I land at Suvarnabhum Airport, it is about six in the evening. I have no luggage to collect, so I grab a taxi and I sit in the back with my eyes closed, exhausted. When I reach home, I remember to switch my phone back on just before crashing.
30
A tiny voice makes insect noises in the depths of my cell phone’s miniature speaker, after shattering my fragile sleep with “All Along the Watchtower”: “So, how’s it going? Feeling better?”
I hold the phone closer to my ear. He’s not using his UN accent tonight: it’s straight New York with a touch of Brooklyn that penetrates the blackness.
“D’you know what time it is?”
“Sure. For you it’s four o’clock in the morning, for me it’s two hours earlier than that, but I don’t sleep much. Four o’clock is when all good monks get up to start their daily practice.”
“I’m not a monk.”
“Who are you kidding?”
I let a beat pass. “My son died. I didn’t tell you. I thought you’d see it, you being enlightened and
all. I was testing you. He was killed in an accident. You didn’t know, did you?”
We hang in silence for a moment. “No, I’m sorry. Very sorry. I didn’t know.”
“But you knew I was going to be hit by something devastating. You said so.”
“The spirit is always devastating on its first visit. When you insisted on the initiation, I knew you were going to take a hit. Same as me. I didn’t invent dharma. You have Western blood, you wanted the karma of ten thousand lifetimes all rolled up into one hit so you can take the fast track to enlightenment and get the gold medal before anyone else. Well …” He sighs. “But I’m still sorry. There is no worse feeling than the first time you get whacked, no matter what any of the old hands tell you. I’m just glad it’s you and not me—and you’ll feel the same, one day.”
“Thanks.” I decide to change the subject. “We’re having a little problem here, a girl, an Englishwoman in her late twenties, a mule named Mary Smith—somebody busted her. She has a Nepali visa in her passport. D’you know who busted her?”
“Sure, General Zinna. You know that.”
“I mean, who busted her to Zinna?”
“I did.”
The unadorned confession leaves me speechless for a moment. “Are you crazy? D’you know what Vikorn is going to do when he finds out? It’s my duty to tell him.”
“So tell him. I don’t mind. In fact, I insist. I don’t want you trying to make me responsible for your failure of duty.”
“But I thought you had a deal with him—with us. D’you think he’s still going to deal with you after this?”
“I’m sure of it. In fact, he’ll want to deal even more.”
I’m lost. All I can think of to say for the moment is, “Why?”
“Vikorn doesn’t have the money. He told me. I need forty, and the most he can raise on short notice is twenty.”
The full implications of this take a while to dawn on me. “You’re trying to muscle him? Look, one: he doesn’t muscle easy, in fact he doesn’t muscle at all, and two: he really can’t raise that much in a week. He just can’t do it.”
“I know that.”
“So?”
“His chum, General Zinna, he’s in the same boat.”
I’m so aghast I can hardly speak. I’m also disillusioned: Tietsin is coming across as a dangerous amateur. “You went to Zinna when you already had a deal with us?” I pause to allow myself a cooling inhalation. “Look, you may be a great guru or yogin or whatever, but that’s one big no-no. Over here, I’m sorry to have to say, that’s dumber than dumb. You have just screwed the whole thing up. Maybe you should look somewhere else for a deal, how about Amsterdam, or somewhere not less than five thousand miles away?”
“No. I like you. I’m sticking with you. I told you, Tibetans are a naturally loyal people. We don’t give up on someone we take to—not in one lifetime anyway. I might have gone off you before the Maitreya Buddha arrives, but there’s plenty of time.”
“How can you be so cocky?”
“It’s not cocky. Think about it. Think out loud for me.”
“Okay, I’m thinking out loud. I’m thinking that you have double-crossed the most powerful drug lord in Thailand, after having first busted that Australian mule who was working for the second-most powerful drug lord in Thailand. That’s two very big enemies and no friends except me, and from a business perspective I’m also starting to have my doubts. Maybe you should stick to teaching enlightenment through voluntary psychosis.”
He has the audacity to sigh, as if I’m a slow learner. “You’re too Western in your outlook. It’s too black-and-white. People are driven by psychology. What does Buddhism tell us about that? What are the three motivations of ordinary men?”
“Fear, lust, and aggression.”
“Right. Why was your Colonel so keen to deal with me?”
“Because what you’re offering is so big he’ll be able to annihilate Zinna. Aggression.”
“And what would be the reason why General Zinna might see me as a gift from heaven?”
“Okay, so he can get big enough to annihilate Vikorn, but—”
“Stop, you’re too stuck in the here and now. Make the blade wheel work for you. It doesn’t have to be a full-blown internal workout every time, you can calibrate it a bit. Take a full minute to let it enter your mind, let it rise up from the subconscious, where you have carefully buried it.”
I close my eyes and relax. Damn him, it starts to work. But I still don’t understand how he’s going to get away with alienating his main business partner.
“So,” he says, “how far have we got?”
“Well, like I just said, it’s all about fear, lust, and aggression. You don’t have to be Buddhist to know that.”
“And what happens when aggression collapses, as it inevitably does?”
“You start again with fear. It’s the vicious circle in the middle of the mandala: snake, pig, and eagle, usually.”
“And what would Vikorn fear most in these circumstances?”
“Easy. That he might get annihilated by Zinna.”
“Right. And what does Zinna fear most?”
My eyes start to open. I’m stammering at his audacity when I say, “You’re, you’re, you’re playing them off against each other? But how—?”
“When I spoke to Zinna he said the same thing as Vikorn. He can only get twenty at short notice. That’s when I knew the dharma was on my side. Two and two make four, right?”
I gasp. “You really think you can get them to work together? Form a partnership to raise forty million?”
Another of those intimidating sighs. “You just told me they will. Fear: what choice do they have?”
Still gasping: “Each one has to be in because the other is in? You’re amazing. But I don’t think you’ll get away with it. They’ll kill each other first. Assuming they can’t get to Kathmandu to kill you.”
He pauses to let the darkness speak, then: “Hmm, you may be right. I don’t like to be complacent. That’s why I’ve got you.”
“I only work for Vikorn; I don’t work for Zinna.”
“You are a peacetime consigliere—after you left I watched the DVDs. I thought Brando was terrific, as was Pacino, and you are a perfect Hagen. So, do peace. After all, you’re only trying to make your boss richer.”
I’m exploring my left ear with my left pinkie. “I still don’t get why you had to bust the English girl.”
“It wasn’t my idea. Zinna insisted. He had to start on an even footing, he said, and I’d already busted one of his. The trouble is, he’s psychotic, and with psychotics you have to accept there’s a wall in them they can’t get around. He can’t get around his jealousy of your boss. Vikorn has a better mind, and he’s not psychotic.”
“So what is he?”
“Go figure—I have never come across anything like him before! When I was in the monastery we spent a whole year on citipati, which is a highly specialized kind of fire demon, and Vikorn could belong to a subspecies, but I’m not sure. You really need an expert. It’s as tricky as sexing a kitten. Anyway, I think you get the idea, and the General is expecting a visit. I wouldn’t take Lek if I were you, he gets the soldiers all excited.”
“How do you know about—”
He’s closed his phone. Now I realize I forgot to ask if he had ever met Frank Charles; after all, the American didn’t have just one Nepali visa in his passport, he had about a dozen. It’s four-thirty in the morning. I also forgot to ask him how he knew the names of those two mules in the first place. Joint time.
That’s better. I’m not encouraging you to break the law, farang, but if on your next trip to Amsterdam and those wonderful smoking cafés (funny how many software companies hold their office parties there), or when you’re hanging out in good ol’ Humboldt County, home to the medicinal herb (they say at least 1 percent really are on chemo), or maybe you make regular trips to the Riff Mountains over in Morocco, or you contribute in some other clandestine wa
y to the global community of secret smokers (do you realize that the number of people who voted in the last American presidential election were only a tiny fraction of the number of people who smoke marijuana, worldwide? Globalism cuts both ways)—if, as I say, you find yourself partaking perhaps out of mere social duty, as is de rigueur for all presidential candidates these days and I’m glad to hear it (if the last president had taken a toke before bedtime, how many lives might have been saved?), then allow me to recommend the humble herb not only as a meditation aid, but also for the purposes of forensic investigation: it’s not good on detail, but it provides a terrific overview. For example, what do we have here exactly, at the present time of smoking? One hell of a tangle, is what we have. Mellowing it all out under the influence of the life-giving weed, I find as follows:
I am investigating the most colorful and photogenic murder of my career under the name of my most serious professional rival, who will get all the credit when I solve it—which I will do because I’m drearily good at that sort of thing—while trying to arrange a huge smack shipment with a rogue Tibetan yogin, who happens also to be my meditation guru at my own insistence, despite a life-threatening conflict of interest with regard to my boss, Colonel Vikorn, who is most interested not in selling smack but in ruining General Zinna, who is equally keen to ruin Vikorn and couldn’t really give a damn about commerce as long as Vikorn goes to jail for longer than he does at the end of the day, and the task of your investigative reporter-cum-consigliere-cum-detective at this stage is to persuade these two old bull elephants to join hands in joyful harmony for the purpose of buying said karma-laden poison from the most selfless and enlightened being I have met in a lifetime of searching, who has turned my head upside down with some ultra-powerful magic from the ultra-powerful but not very well-known Vajrayana school of Buddhism, also known as Tantra, also known as Apocalyptic Buddhism. Can you blame me for rolling another?