by Don Winslow
But he felt the energizing simplicity of desperation. It felt great to be done with the myriad complexities of intrigue, with the subtle maneuvers, with the twisted emotions, with the damn thinking. The whole mess had come to a race up a mountain, and the fresh air and open spaces sang to him as he settled into a pace.
He realized he hadn’t been alone in three months, not for a single hour, and he certainly hadn’t been free. Now he looked up at the magnificent panorama of mountains and valleys, and he felt… clean. He hadn’t felt clean in a long, long time.
The climb began abruptly as the grassy plateau gave way to a narrow saddle and the dirt trail yielded to a more formal stone path. The saddle emptied into a thick grove of bamboo, beyond which was a stone bridge over a fast, narrow stream. On the other side of the bridge, Neal passed under a large open gate to the bottom of a steep knoll. The stone steps flanked the edge of a wall, behind which was an enormous temple. Neal paused at the first landing and felt the pins and needles in his legs. The trail ahead of him went straight uphill for as far as he could see. It was going to be a long day.
And he had to find an elephant.
No, not an elephant. The elephant. On a Chinese mountain.
Speaking of elephants on Chinese mountains, he thought… I’m probably pretty conspicuous now that daylight’s here.
He walked up the stairs until he came to an open arched gate, then stepped inside. He was standing at the edge of a large courtyard where a small battalion of monks were doing t‘ai chi. Other monks, who looked like young novices, scurried about with wooden buckets of water and bundles of firewood. Neal surmised that they were getting ready for the old after-t‘ai chi breakfast. Neal sidled along the edge of the courtyard beneath a tiled portico, then slipped through the first open door.
The sanctuary was full of statues, sticks of incense smoldering in their stone hands. Neal hit the staircase just inside the door and found himself in a hallway in front of a row of rooms. In the trusting, cloistered atmosphere of the monastery, the rooms were unlocked.
So much for trust, Neal thought, as he went inside the first room. A heavy shirt and a pair of peasant trousers hung on a wooden peg. Working clothes, Neal thought, as he held the shirt up against his chest. It was much too large, so he tried the next room. Still too large.
He hit the jackpot at the end of the hallway, where a larger room had eight kangs and eight sets of work clothes. Must be the novices’ dorm, he thought. He found a set of clothes that fit loosely, then stripped off his own Western clothes and changed into the Chinese workaday outfit. He kept his tennis shoes, though, figuring that a change of footwear didn’t make sense for a long climb up a mountain. Besides, if anyone got close enough to notice his shoes, they would also notice his round eyes.
A few more minutes of scavenging got him a wide straw hat, which he slanted down over his forehead.
There was still the problem of his modern Western bag. He gave a resigned sigh, then removed his copy of Random and Li Lan’s brochure from the bag and put them in the shirt’s wide hip pocket. He took out his toothbrush, toothpaste, and razor and put them in the other pocket, and shoved Simms’s pistol into the back of his pants at the waist. Then he rolled the bag up tightly and put it under his arm until he could find a safe place to dump it.
He paused at the top of the stairs and listened. The t‘ai chi was still going on, and he could hear the clatter of kettles and plates from the kitchen. He hustled down the stairs and went to find a back exit, then passed through the row of statues and under another arch into a broad courtyard.
To his left, a small pagoda supported a bronze bell about nine feet high and eight feet around. A monk sat by the ladder leading up to the bell, but he didn’t seem to notice Neal. To Neal’s right, a twenty-foot tower rose over the monastery walls. It had fourteen levels, with large characters inscribed on each level. Neal walked through the courtyard and up some steps into a large temple.
The usual saints were there, and a large Buddha, but the central figure was a sixteen-foot-tall bronze statue of a man sitting astride an elephant.
Okay, Neal thought, now we’ll see if Li Lan’s word is any good after all.
“Did you steal those clothes?” he heard her ask.
“Yup.”
She came out from behind one of the statues. She was wearing cotton peasant pants and an old Mao jacket and cap. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she threw her arms around him.
“You are alive,” she whispered.
He hugged her back. It felt great.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “They’ll be coming after us. There’s a traitor in your old man’s operation.”
He felt her body tense.
“You led them here?” she asked.
“They know anyway. Listen to me. One of your father’s people, Peng, is a mole, a traitor. He’s working for the other side. You didn’t tell me your father was working against the government.”
“He is working to become the government.”
“Is he part of this ‘Sichuan Mafia’?”
“I have heard it called that, yes.”
“Pendleton’s on the mountain?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Is there any other way off the mountain? An escape route?”
“It is very dangerous. Over the top and down the western side. Then by foot road to Tibet. It is very long and very dangerous. But the Yi people hate the government. They would lead us. And hide us.”
“Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. You take me to Pendleton. If he wants to stay, fine. He stays and takes his chances. If he wants to leave, your people give us a guide and supplies and we hit the road to Tibet. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Well, half a deal anyway. Peng wasn’t sitting at the table.
“Tell me the truth,” he said. “If Pendleton decides to stay, is he committing suicide? Is there a chance you can make it while Peng knows what’s going on?”
She nodded. “Father is very powerful. Peng will be afraid to move against him without proof. He will need possession of Robert and me, and to connect us with Father.”
“Can he do that?”
She nodded again. “Father is on mountain.”
“Jesus Christ! Why?”
She smiled wanly. “To see Robert, to see me, to see my sister. It was to have been a happy family reunion.”
Maybe it still can be, Neal thought. If two can walk to Tibet, so can five. But none of that can happen unless we can get to the top before we get caught.
“Let’s get going,” he said.
The path led out the back of the monastery on a narrow raised road flanked by fields where a few farmers were at work. Neal and Li came to a bridge over a rapid creek, and Neal tossed his bag into the water.
The path was level and the walking easy as the path ran beside another creek, past ancient, gigantic banyan trees. The countryside was still fairly open, and they could see the rocky crags of Emei’s lower slopes. They came to a village of about a hundred pleasant, thatch-roofed wooden houses amid a grove of tall bamboo. Neal sat at the edge of the path as Lan stopped at one house and came out a minute later with two mantou and two bamboo cups of tea. They sat under the bamboo and ate quickly, then started back up the path, which went across another bridge and then up a steep incline through a thick forest of fir trees.
It emerged into open country between the creek and a high, rocky knoll on which was perched a large monastery. It was midmorning, the sun was out, and Neal felt sweat beginning to break out on his back and then trickle down his spine. Li Lan was setting a healthy pace, and the increasing pitch didn’t seem to bother her. Neal had thought that walking up the stone steps would be easier than struggling up an incline, but the backs of his thighs were already starting to ache and the soles of his feet felt the pounding.
Another half hour of climbing took them under a wooden arch where four wooden poles supported three tiled, curved roofs, and then up along the
edge of a knoll to an ornate monastery. A broad terrace looked out over a deep, forested chasm.
“We will rest here,” Li said.
“If you really want to,” Neal said between gasps.
“This is an historic place,” Li said, “where Emperor Kang-hsi visited and gave the abbot a jade seal.”
“When was this?” Neal asked, eager to keep up the conversation-and the breather.
“Qing Dynasty. In your time, the late sixteenth century.”
Around the time of Shakespeare, Neal thought.
“Emperor Kang-hsi gave this place the name ‘Dragon’s Abode.’”
“Did dragons live here?”
Li laughed. “No, but wolves and tigers did, down the hill, until the abbot built a watchtower with fire to scare them off. The fire at night looked like a dragon’s mouth. So the name is a funny joke.”
“Pretty droll emperor.”
“The resting time is finished.”
Which will teach me to mouth off about the emperor.
To Neal’s surprise and relief, the path went downhill in a switchback around another steep knoll. It crossed and recrossed the curving river on stone bridges, finally working its way down to a waterfall about twelve feet high.
They crossed the river just downstream of the waterfall, and Neal enjoyed the spray of the cool water as he passed by. He looked over the bridge into a pool, where smooth stones sparkled like jade. Then he followed Li around what looked to be an enormous monastery. Li went in a side gate and emerged a few minutes later with two wooden bowls of rice and some pickled vegetables. Neal shoveled the food down gratefully while sitting on the path, and then they started off again.
The path led to a ferociously steep, zigzag incline surrounded by a thick bamboo forest. Each switchback led to just another switchback, higher than the last, on the very edge of the mountain. The view was stunning, overlooking the valleys and plains to the east and the path they had just ascended, but after three or four switchbacks, Neal stopped looking. He just put his head down and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and his eyes stung from perspiration and fatigue.
He almost missed the tree with the “wanted” poster on it.
‘“What’s this?” he asked Li.
A sketch of a monkey’s face had been nailed to a tree.
“Bandit monkey,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Bandit monkey?”
“Yes, it offers a reward for this monkey… named One Fang… because it has been robbing pilgrims. There are many bandit monkeys on Emei. Only the very worst get a poster.”
She started back up the hill.
Bandit monkeys, Neal thought. He pictured Central Park with gangs of simian muggers running around, dropping on people out of trees… taking their peanuts… then gave up the fantasy. Central Park was bad enough.
“What do the monkeys steal?” he called ahead.
“You will see!”
Say what?
“What do you mean?!”
“Monkeys any time now!”
Monkeys any time now. Neal stopped for a second to break a dead branch of bamboo and strip it down into a walking stick. Then he remembered that he had a gun and felt a little foolish. I wonder if the monkeys understand what a gun is? he wondered.
They didn’t.
It was three switchbacks later when about half a dozen monkeys came scrambling down through the bamboo and blocked the path in front of them. They were about the size of cocker spaniels and had a good sense of terrain, because they plopped themselves just where the path took a wicked outside curve over a deep canyon. Two of the monkeys stayed in the bamboo on the uphill side to block that escape. The monkeys looked for all the world like a hairy street gang extorting passersby on their turf. The head monkey wasn’t One Fang, because he had two very large, healthy incisors that he displayed in a a growl of anger and arrogance.
He got angrier when Li Lan whacked him in the legs with her walking stick. He leaped in the air, snarling and snapping, and rushed toward her legs. She stepped back and swung at him again, missing him by an inch as he somersaulted backward. Another monkey rushed at her from the side. Neal couldn’t swing at it with his stick without hitting Li, so he kicked at the monkey, which retreated up the path and hunched into a threatening crouch. The rest of the monkeys contributed screams and howls of intimidation and hilarity and waited for the next round.
Neal pulled the pistol from his waistband. He leveled it at the lead monkey, who sat staring at it curiously and issued a low growl. He might not have recognized a gun, but he knew a threat when he saw one. He started to back away, still growling. His gang followed him as he scrambled back up the hill into the bamboo.
Neal pulled the pistol up and blew into the barrel before sticking it back in his pants.
Li didn’t get it.
“You’ll be okay now, ma‘am,” Neal said, “as long as I’ve got this here Winchester.”
Then a small stone hit him in the side of the head. This was followed by a barrage of rocks, sticks, nuts, and fruit that followed Neal and Li as they retreated about fifty feet down the path.
Son of a bitch, Neal thought. The bastards understand firepower.
Sure enough, four monkeys were still launching missiles while their comrades hustled around the hillside collecting ammunition. Neal picked up a handful of small, sharp stones and flung them toward the monkey battery on the hillsides. He found the resulting cries of indignation extremely satisfactory, especially when his adversaries retreated up the hill.
Joe Graham is wrong, Neal thought. I can outsmart an ape.
He found this wasn’t exactly true, however, when it became apparent that all the monkeys had done was set their blockade up on the next switchback. Two of the largest were sitting in the middle of the path, grinning with immense glee while their supporting troops crouched in the bamboo, ammunition already at hand-or paw.
“Uh, how many switchbacks are there?” Neal asked, aware that this could go on all day.
“Many.”
“What do the monkeys want?” Maybe it would be easier to pay the toll and get on with it.
“Food.”
“Do we have any?”
“No.”
“Right. I’m going to shoot one.”
“No!”
“We could collect the reward.”
“For a live monkey only.”
“We don’t have time to fuck around here, Li.”
She looked at him curiously and with a trace of indignation until he realized that she hadn’t understood the idiom.
“I mean we have to get going.”
The monkeys, fully aware of the humans’ hesitation, sensed victory and inched closer. Great grimaces of dominance spread across their faces and they scratched vigorously.
“You may not shoot them,” Li said firmly.
Besides, Neal thought, I probably couldn’t hit one anyway. And they are kind of cute, in a repulsive sort of way. He drew the gun anyway and pointed it at the leader. The leader didn’t show any signs of intimidation this time, unless rubbing one’s genitals could be interpreted as a sign of terror. Then he shot back, so to speak, with a stream of urine.
“That does it,” Neal said. “Can you stand them off for a few minutes?
“I think so.”
Neal retreated down to the edge of the last curve and then headed up the hill through the bamboo. He scratched his way up to the next level of the path until he was looking down at the monkeys. He gathered up rocks, sticks, and fruits and then headed down toward the spot where the monkey gang was in its standoff with Li Lan. He snuck from tree to tree, being as quiet as a city-bred klutz can be in a bamboo jungle, until he stood about twenty feet above the gang.
He took a Ron Guidry windup and launched a rock at the leader, scoring a strike on its haunches. The monkey yelped more with surprise than with pain and turned to see where the rock had come from. Neal then threw as many of his miss
iles as he could get off, and screamed obscenities.
The startled monkeys froze on the path and glared up at him. For one ugly moment, Neal thought they were going to charge him, but his last pitch was a wicked curve with a bamboo stick that hit the leader in the left shoulder.
The leader turned tail and the monkeys ran, downhill this time, and Li Lan scurried up the path to Neal.
Neal waited for her praise and gratitude.
“I perhaps should have told you about the snakes.”
“Snakes?”
“Poisonous snakes, yes.”
“Yes, you perhaps should have told me about them.”
She nodded solemnly. “There are many poisonous snakes in the bamboo forests here.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome. Shall we continue?”
She started up the switchback. Neal picked up some stones and put them in his pockets in case the monkeys tried to gain the upper hand on them again.
He shouldn’t have worried. No monkey on earth was ambitious enough to tackle the next few switchbacks, which were made up of narrow stone steps that rose at an impossible grade up to the very edge of the mountain. It seemed like some endless torture of running up stadium steps, prescribed by some goofy, sadistic Chinese football coach.
Neal knew that the top of each stairway had to be-had to be-the last, but each time he reached a landing it was only a prelude to the next zigzagging staircase. His thighs and calves strained and ached, and his lungs started to struggle for air.
In addition to the exertion, there was the bonus of fear. They were walking along the edge of the mountain, on the rim of steep cliffs and deep chasms, on stone steps that were a thousand years old. The steps were gullied and chipped, and where water ran down from uphill, they were slippery as well. Most of the trail wasn’t that dangerous, and a fall would have been broken quickly by the thick bamboo, but other spots offered the prospect of a dramatic free fall into jagged rocks, rushing streams, and waterfalls. It was a painter’s dream, no question, but a nightmare for Neal Carey, who was afraid of heights.
So he was exhausted, hungry, aching, and nauseated with fear when the trail finally leveled out before narrowing into an arched stone bridge.