High Priestess td-95

by Warren Murphy

  Then Remo remembered.

  "The gold!"

  He beat a courier to the door and opened it for him.

  "I don't suppose you're M.O.S. Chiun," the courier said, puffing.

  Remo took the boom-box-sized crate from the man with one hand. As if it had entered another atmosphere where gravity exerted less pull, the box seemed to become almost buoyant in Remo's hand.

  "Nope, but I'm empowered to sign for him."

  The courier wiped his brow with his blue uniform sleeve as Remo signed the voucher.

  "What's in this thing anyway-lead diving shoes?" the courier grumbled.

  Remo shook his head. "Dwarf star matter."

  "Huh?"

  "Dwarf star matter. Sometimes pieces of it fall to earth. They're so dense that a chunk the size of a basketball weighs as much as Detroit. In order to transport it they have to break it up into tiny pieces. The one in your box is the size of a shirt button."

  "You're kidding me."

  "I'd show you, but if it falls out of the crate, we'll need a crane to pick it up," Remo said.

  "So how come you're handling that crate like it contained marshmallows?"

  "I used to bench press dwarf star matter. It's part of my job training."

  The courier passed the story along to his fellow drivers, and they began wondering aloud if Remo wouldn't mind carrying the other boxes in, since he had a knack for it.

  Remo did mind, but not as much as he minded standing out on the front steps explaining dwarf star matter to twenty different people, all waving clipboards.

  By the time Remo got every crate stacked in the inner hall, the Master of Sinanju had deigned to come down.

  "Is this what I hope it is?" he squeaked excitedly. "Has my gold arrived?"

  "What did you think those trucks were all about? And don't tell me you didn't notice them."

  Chiun stopped at the bottom of the inner stairs, sniffed delicately and said, "You have been to see Smith."

  "Says who?"

  "Says the after-shave lotion clinging to your person. It is the scent that only he wears."

  Damn, thought Remo. Chiun had him. Smith wore a cologne that had been discontinued in 1972, and he had purchased a thirty-year supply closeout for two cents on the dollar. "Okay," Remo said tiredly, "I admit it. I saw Smith."

  Chiun narrowed his eyes. "About what?"

  "Personal stuff."

  "What is so personal that you cannot share it with the one who adopted you?"

  "Get off my back, Chiun."

  "You did not tell Smith about my sunlighting?"

  "Rest assured, the name of Squirrelly Chicane did not pass my lips. Except once."

  "What is this? What is this?"

  "While I was there, the President called. He asked Smith if we could baby-sit Squirrelly in Tibet."

  "And what did Smith say?"

  "Don't sweat it. Smith said no."

  "No? Why did Smith say no? Did he not think we were worthy of the task? Or did he think you were unworthy of so important a responsibility? Oh, Remo, your ineptitude has caused the house great shame."

  "It has not. Smith didn't think the Bunji Lama was a CURE problem."

  "No?"

  "No. Now where do you want this freaking gold?"

  "My gold is not freaking."

  "This gold is. It weighs a ton."

  "It would not be gold if it did not."

  "Touche. So where do I put it?"

  "I would prefer to have it placed in the meditation room where I may meditate on its fineness and superior quality."

  "Don't kid me. You just wanna see that it's all there."

  "That, too."

  Remo started stacking the crates and carrying them upstairs, ten at a time, five balanced in each palm. He made it look easy. In fact, the balancing allowed him to bear the weight without breaking his forearms.

  When all the crates were stacked in the meditation room, some spilling out into the hall, Remo said, "I'm going to bed. I'm bushed."

  Chiun' s fingernails came together with a click, then disappeared into his generous kimono sleeves. "You are not going to open them for me?" he asked in a wheedling voice.

  "No."

  "Since you are tired, I forgive you."

  "Thanks," said Remo, turning to go.

  "Do not forget to shower. You smell like a white."

  "I am white."

  "It is only your skin that is white. It means no more than that the skin of the new Bunji Lama is white."

  Remo paused at the door to his bedroom. "If Squirrelly Chicane really is the Bunji Lama, then I am a Korean."

  Chiun called back, "Do not fall asleep too soon, for wisdom is upon you. Better that you meditate on the truths you have just enunciated."

  Remo slammed the door behind him. The entire building reverberated for a full minute after.

  THE MASTER REGARDED the closed door with its discordant vibrations for several moments in silence. His parchment face was a mask in which hazel eyes gleamed with an opaque light.

  Padding into the meditation room, he ignored the crates of gold that his shrewd bargaining had earned.

  Instead, he picked up the telephone and depressed the 1 button as he had seen his pupil do so often. Strange sounds came from the earpiece as the call was routed to a trailer park in Moore, Oklahoma, to foil tracing. Finally the ringing began.

  The voice of Harold W. Smith came on the line. "Yes?"

  "Hail, Emperor Smith. Greetings from the House of Sinanju."

  "Master Chiun. What can I do for you?"

  "Remo tells me he has been to see you."

  "He has. He is concerned about these . . . er. . . seizures."

  Chiun clutched the phone more tightly. "Has there been another?"

  "No."

  "This is good."

  "Remo asked me to consult with one of the psychiatrists here," Smith said.

  "That is not like him."

  "I know, Master Chiun. But he seems unusually troubled."

  "It will pass"

  "It is to be hoped. I cannot allow my enforcement arm to be at large if he is suffering from some sort of multiple-personality disorder."

  "Fear not, Smith. It is nothing of the sort. Remo is merely going through a phase. It will pass."

  "And when it does, will Remo be the Remo we know?"

  Chiun compressed his thin, papery lips and said nothing. It was a question he could not answer. Possibly a question without any good answer.

  "Remo informs me that the matter of Squirrelly Chicane has been brought to your attention," Chiun said at length.

  "I declined the President's request that we bodyguard her. It is not our problem."

  "Even if some difficulty befalls her?"

  "She is an American citizen exercising her prerogative to travel where she will."

  "It occurs to me, O Emperor, that perhaps all Remo needs is a vacation."

  "I would prefer that one of you remain on standby. Something may come up."

  "Very wise, O Smith. Allow me to suggest that Remo be the one to remain standing by. He does that better than I."

  "If you wish to take a vacation, by all means. Go."

  "I have some property that I must return to my native village. But I do not wish to squander a vacation doing so, for it will be duty, not pleasure, that compels my journey."

  "I fail to understand," said Smith.

  Chiun's voice lifted. "Do you not recall in my last contract, the clause numbered seventy-eight?"

  "Clause seventy-eight?"

  "The clause that allows the Master of Sinanju to take leave when he will. Unpaid leave."

  "You mean a sabbatical?"

  "If that is the proper word, yes."

  "By all means, Master Chiun, take a sabbatical."

  "Your understanding knows no bounds."

  And the Master hung up. Immediately he began packing. Only one trunk this time. The taxi driver managed it quite successfully, causing no damage and retaining his limbs.


  Chiun did not awaken Remo. Nor did he bring his roomful of gold with him. There were things more important than gold. Not many, but a few.

  One of the most important things was that Remo not accompany him to Tibet. For he might recognize it, and the consequences of that not even the gods could predict.

  Chapter 17

  High over the Indian Ocean, Squirrelly Chicane was cramming for her high-profile meeting with the Dalai Lama.

  She sat cross-legged on an overstuffed cushion that was in turn placed on an exquisite Oriental rug. She swam in her saffron robes, but Lobsang wouldn't allow her to have it taken in by even the finest of Beverly Hills couturiers. Her maroon lama's miter cast a rhinoceros-horn shadow over the pages of her book, making the words hard to read by the overhead lights.

  It was night, so throwing aside one of the window hangings on Kula's private plane wouldn't have helped.

  It was a neat plane, Squirrelly thought. Like a flying barge. No wonder Kula called it his skyboat. If Cleopatra had lived in the twentieth century, she would have had one just like it.

  They were on the last leg of their flight to Delhi. Or Bombay or wherever it was they were going.

  When Lobsang had first explained that they were going to the holy land, Squirrelly had said, "We're going to Israel!"

  They had looked at her funny. But then they always looked at her funny. They were still getting used to the idea of a Bunji Lama who was both white and female.

  "To Buddhists," Lobsang patiently explained, "India is the holy land."

  "I've never been to India," Squirrelly had said. "I don't think."

  "It is a wonderful land, not only because it is the cradle of Buddhism, but because it is free. Unlike Tibet. "

  "After I'm done, Tibet will be free."

  "First you must relearn your faith."

  "I brought my entire collection of Hermann Hesse and William S. Burroughs books."

  The two looked blank. Cute but blank.

  Squirrelly showed them her copy of Dharma Lion and after Kula has translated the title, Lobsang had smiled happily. They were so easy to please.

  So Squirrelly had sat down to read. The funny thing was, her copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance had vanished. She knew she had brought it aboard. They had hardly let her bring anything. Lobsang had turned away most of her luggage, saying that her purpose as the Bunji Lama was to renounce the physical world.

  They let her keep her stash of bhang. For some reason, they had no problem with that. That was when Squirrelly knew that she was going to really like being a Buddhist.

  The more she read, the more it confirmed her sense that she had found the perfect spiritual identity in the perfect body. She was the Bunji Lama and she was still Squirrelly Chicane. It was better than sharing that Siamese soul with Mae West.

  She liked everything she read about Buddhism. All people and things were in harmony, because everything that happened was predestined to happen. Therefore, no one ever screwed up in the cosmic sense.

  "It's all scripted!" Squirrelly had blurted out in a moment of true epiphany. "It all connects!"

  Of course, killing was prohibited. Yet no person or thing ever really died in the absolute Western sense of dying. Instead, a soul moved up or down the karmic ladder according to the life that had been led. So while it was bad to kill, no one should be punished for it. Karma would take care of everything.

  Further, there were seven heavens and seven hells, instead of the harsh pass-fail Christian system. When you died, you dropped your body like last year's fashions. And when you wanted to pray, you spun a little gimcrack and it prayed for you.

  Wonderfully balanced, unjudgmental and handsoff, it was the perfect belief system, Squirrelly decided.

  And Buddhas. There were hundreds of Buddhas. As the Bunji Lama, Squirrelly was the reincarnation of the Buddha to Come, who was a really good Buddha to be because everyone looked forward to his return. As a Buddha, Squirrelly would be continually reborn into the world in order to regenerate it by relieving its suffering.

  "This makes perfect sense to me," Squirrelly said, patting the dyed-saffron curls that peeped out from under her miterlike lama's cap.

  Then the engine whine began to change pitch, and Kula came back from the pilot's compartment to say, "We have arrived, Bunji"

  "Fabulous," said Squirrelly, going to a window.

  She looked down and saw nothing. Literally. The earth below was like freshly washed blackboard.

  "Where is the city? Where are the lights?"

  "They are telling us that there are no lights," Kula said unconcernedly.

  "What happened to them?"

  "No electricity."

  "How thoughtful. Conserving the lights at night when they're not needed."

  "They are also forbidding us to land."

  "Why?"

  "The Hindu fear Beijing's displeasure."

  "So what do we do?"

  Kula beamed. "We land, of course. For we fear no one's displeasure but Buddha's. "

  The landing was rough. The airport was without power, too. So there was no radar in the tower, no marker lights on the runways, and the boarding ramps were inoperative.

  Squirrelly didn't care. The jet's flat tires could be fixed, and she didn't need a ramp. She took a puff of her roach and closed her eyes. But Kula pulled her back before she could invoke her newfound powers of levitation.

  After they had rolled the air stairs up to the plane, Kula threw open the hatch. Squirrelly, trying to keep her maroon lama's hat in place, stepped out onto the top step.

  First she noticed the crowds. There were none.

  Then she noticed the smell.

  "What is that awful smell?" she asked, pinching her nose shut and breathing through her mouth.

  "What smell?" asked Kula.

  Squirrelly yanked him out onto the step with her.

  "That smell!"

  "That is India."

  "It smells like a cesspool," Squirrelly said in a nasal tone.

  Kula nodded. "Yes, India."

  Lobsang joined them, tasted the air with his long nose, seemed to find it acceptable and said, "We have landed in India!"

  "Does it all smell like this?" Squirrelly asked, still holding her nose.

  "This good?" asked Lobsang.

  "This bad."

  "Some of it is worse. Come, we cannot tarry. Chinese agents may be lurking about."

  "Shouldn't we wait for the reception committee? Usually I get the key to the city when I land in a foreign capital."

  "The key to New Delhi," Kula said, hustling her down the steps, "is not to remain here for very long."

  There was a car waiting. It looked like some British model that had seen better days. Squirrelly got in the back and rolled up the windows. As the car left the airport, the soupy heat made her open them again.

  For the remainder of the ride, she alternately rolled the windows up when the smell got to be too much and down again when the heat started wilting her hat.

  New Delhi, even blacked out, was a mess. Traffic was a nightmare. A lumbering red bus almost sideswiped them. Wrenching the wheel, Kula swiped back, running the bus off the road and into a ditch where it rolled over three times before coming to a dusty halt on its side.

  It seemed that every other bus they encountered tried to run them off the road.

  "What's wrong with these bus drivers?" Squirrelly demanded huffily.

  Kula shrugged his broad shoulders. "They live in New Delhi, are devout Buddhists and therefore have nothing to lose by dying suddenly. The odds of a better next life are overwhelming."

  Beside her, Lobsang was talking. "Now, the Dalai Lama wears a pleasant face," he was saying. "Do not be deceived, Presence. He will be envious of your karmic station."

  "I wonder if he'll remember me," Squirrelly murmured.

  "From which life?"

  "From this one. I met him at a party once. He was a very nice little man."

  "When you met
him that time, he failed to recognize you for the Bunji Lama, his ancient rival. Now it will be different. Beware the serpent behind the mask. He will appeal to your more trustworthy instincts. He will preach dangerous ideas."

  "Like what?"

  "Pacifism." The word was a short cobra's hiss.

  In front Kula spit on the floorboard.

  Squirrelly wrinkled up her gamin face. "Isn't that what Buddha taught?"

  "Lord Buddha," Lobsang said in precise tones, "did not suffer under the iron yoke of communism."

  And the brittleness in the close confines of the bus-dodging car made Squirrelly Chicane shiver and wonder what she had gotten herself into.

  THE DALAI LAMA STOOD outside his temple in exile, surrounded by his retinue, when they entered the dusty hill town of Dharamsala, north of New Delhi, in the shadow of Mun Peak.

  He was just as Squirrelly remembered him-a little man with merry but wise eyes behind aviator sunglasses. His robe was maroon. His retinue all wore saffron hats. Squirrelly remembered Lobsang telling her that the Dalai Lama headed the yellow-hat sect of Tibetan Buddhism. As the Bunji Lama, she was the head of the red-hat sect. Personally she would have preferred burgundy.

  Walking with her ceremonial bronze dorje clutched in one hand, trying to keep her maroon miter in place, Squirrelly floated up the dirt road to where the Dalai Lama awaited.

  The Dalai Lama stood with his hands clasped in prayer, his face a pleasant mask. He neither smiled nor blinked, nor did he otherwise acknowledge Squirrelly's arrival. Not even when Squirrelly stopped just six feet in front of him.

  "What do I say?" she whispered to Lobsang.

  "Say nothing."

  "What's he waiting for?"

  "For you to bow."

  "So why aren't I bowing?"

  "To bow would be to acknowledge inferior status."

  "Listen, to get out of this frigging heat, I'd get down on my hands and knees and kiss his little saffron sandals."

  "Do not bow!" Lobsang warned. "It is in this moment that your supremacy will be decided."

  "Does a curtsy count?"

  "Do nothing!"

  So Squirrelly didn't curtsy. Neither did the Dalai Lama bow.

  Then Lobsang spoke up. "Your Holiness, I present to you the forty-seventh Bunji Lama, presently occupying a body known as Squirrelly Chicane."

  The Dalai Lama blinked. Members of his retinue craned their shaved heads forward as if seeing her for the first time.