Military Orders

by Martin Roth

  “It is a very sad case. I am sorry that you have felt the need to fly here. My condolences go to you and to all your family.” The man took a long swig of his chai.

  “My parents phoned the State Department and the US Embassy in New Delhi, and were told he had been attacked in his home. But they couldn’t find out much more.”

  “The evidence is that he was in a fight.”

  “And apparently he was struck over the head.”

  “Yes, it seems he was struck over the head, knocked unconscious and left bleeding on the floor. I am sorry to tell you this, Professor Harel, but he was probably lying on the floor for a few days before we were called by one of his students. He was teaching English at some of the temples, and had missed some lessons. The student went to his home, found it unlocked, walked in and discovered him dead. Had he been found earlier it is possible he might have been saved. Did you know that?”

  Harel shook his head.

  “Possibly your State Department or your embassy were uncomfortable about relaying this information to you.” He opened his files and consulted these. “He has a wife, but she had flown back to the States.”

  “She is due to have a baby very soon.”

  “Had she been there…” He shrugged his shoulders and looked pointedly at Harel. “She might have saved him. Or she might also have been killed.”

  “But the point is, who killed him?”

  “The offender has escaped.”

  “But of course you’ll catch him.” Harel tried to avoid the sarcasm. He knew he was probably unsuccessful.

  “The murder of a Westerner is not good for this town. So of course it is important that we catch the culprit.”

  “Well, I’m happy you have an incentive.” He took a sip of his chai. It was still burning hot. He reflected that the officer must have a throat of lead.

  “It is not easy for us. I am sorry to tell such an eminent man as yourself, Professor Harel, that we believe your brother was involved in the smuggling of artworks.”

  Harel looked hard the man. “I need to talk about that. My brother had been here only for one year. He is an ethical man, a very honest man, a family man. He was supported by his church. He is not a thief. Do you have any evidence?”

  “We have a complaint from a temple - not here in Dharamsala, but down in the Kangra Valley - a complaint that a number of important antiquities were stolen. It seems at least one priest from that temple was involved. He has fled. Whether he was the murderer or not we still do not know, though we have to think that he might be. We suspect other temples and some other priests may also be involved. There could have been quite a network. And your brother was probably the coordinator.”

  “No. That’s absurd.” Harel had to restrain himself from standing and shouting in the officer’s face.

  “He was telling them what would fetch a good price overseas, and then he arranged for their shipment.”

  “Matt? No. No. I can tell you - he knew nothing about art. He had zero interest in it. He…Maybe it was a simple burglary that went wrong. Weren’t some items stolen from his apartment?”

  “We have no…”

  “And if he was making overseas shipments there would be evidence of that,” interrupted Harel.

  “We have no evidence that anything was stolen from his home,” said the officer calmly. “Everything there seems quite normal. And we are still gathering evidence concerning possible shipments.” Now the officer stood and walked around the room. He moved to a position behind Harel, as if Harel was a criminal suspect. “Professor Harel, why was he here? Why was Mr Matthew Harel here? A thirty-five-year-old man with a wife and a young child. Why does such a man come to Dharamsala? Why does he keep visiting all the neighborhood temples for no discernible purpose? Talking to all the priests. Arranging English lessons for them. Free of charge. Pretending to take an interest in their culture.”

  Harel resented this interrogation from a man standing behind. He could feel the icy menace, as well as specks of spittle on the back of his neck. “It’s called evangelism.” He spoke with gritted teeth.

  The officer returned to his seat, sipped some more chai and smiled. “Ah. You mean trying to convert all the poor, uneducated natives?” Now it was his turn to display sarcasm. “Here in Dharamsala? Where half the residents have risked their lives escaping from China, because of their strong Buddhist faith. Professor Harel, why exactly did your brother come to Dharamsala?”

  Harel had to admit that he had been somewhat surprised when he learned that his brother was bringing his family to such a small town as Dharamsala as a missionary. It seemed unpromising to say the least. For exactly the reason the officer had just cited, although Matt had talked excitedly to his brother about the chance to reach out to all the Western spiritual seekers who flocked here.

  The officer continued. “Let me put this to you, Professor Harel. How well do you think a young Buddhist missionary, a young Buddhist missionary who speaks only Tibetan, or Hindu perhaps, how do you think he would fare at, say, the Vatican? Trying to convert the people there to his faith. Or in Mecca?”

  Not well, thought Harel. Not at all well. Especially in Mecca, where he would certainly be killed. “I do not - I cannot - believe my brother was involved in any kind of criminal activity. Do you have proof at all?”

  “We do. As I said, we have complaints of missing artworks, from the Manjushri Meditation Temple in the Kangra Valley, which your brother often visited. And one of which was found in his home after his death.”

  “You found a stolen piece of art in his home? A painting? Sculpture? What?”

  The officer walked out of the room, then quickly returned bearing a cardboard box. “This was reported missing, possibly stolen, from the Manjushri Meditation Temple. It was found in your brother’s home after his death.” He pulled out a small object. Harel looked. It was a horrendous sculpture, about the size of a football, showing what appeared to be a crazed young man, his lips red, his eyes aflame, a golden conical hat on his head with flames shooting out, a third eye in his forehead. In one hand he wielded a sword, in the other he bore a human heart, which he was holding close to his mouth. He sat astride a snow lion.

  Harel gasped. He felt his heart start to pound. For an instant he had trouble breathing. Was it perhaps tiredness from the long, overnight airplane journey? Altitude sickness? General stress? No, he knew it was none of those. He stared at the object. This was bad news. Very, very bad news.

  “Do you know what you have there?” he asked the officer.

  “I do indeed, Professor Harel. This is a statue that has been reported missing from the…”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You said that. But do you know what it really is? What it represents?”

  “Well, sir…” The officer was now on the defensive.

  “This represents something that is possibly quite dangerous and evil. If my brother was mixed up with this, then I can understand why he might have been killed. And more people could be in danger as well.”

  Chapter 4

  Dharamsala, Northern India

  In northern India, around five hundred years before the time of Christ, a restless young prince named Siddhartha sought answers to the meaning of life. After some years of struggle he achieved what was termed enlightenment, while meditating under a giant bodhi tree. This prince later came to be called the Buddha - the enlightened one - and for the remaining forty-five years of his life he traveled through India, attracting a growing number of followers, and teaching them how they, too, could achieve enlightenment, and be released from the attachments of this world.

  His teachings became a religion that spread throughout Asia. Yet, ironically, subsequent Muslim invasions and a revival of Hindu nationalism meant that, eventually, Buddhism was largely eradicated in the country of its birth. Today, Buddhists comprise fewer than one per cent of the one-billion-plus population of India, out-numbered even by Christians.

  Thus, Harel knew that the officer in the room with him was
almost certainly Hindu, or possibly Muslim, but was unlikely to be Buddhist. So how could he understand the dread that Harel now felt.

  “What are you talking about, Professor Harel?” asked the officer. “You are starting to confuse me.”

  Where to start? “Do you remember the murder in 1997 of three of the Dalai Lama’s men? Here in Dharamsala.”

  “I do know about that, yes. I was based in Delhi at the time. One of the Dalai Lama’s closest friends, along with two young monks - they were stabbed to death.”

  “It was a ritualistic murder. Almost a kind of exorcism. A group of attackers broke into the men’s quarters and stabbed them again and again. Many people believe that the attackers were from a small Buddhist group that worships the Dorje Shugden - that’s one of the dharma protectors in Tibetan Buddhism. Do you know what a dharma protector is?”

  “No I do not.” He finished his tea. Harel had barely touched his.

  “They’re regarded as spiritual beings that protect the teachings of the Buddha.”

  “Protect the teachings. From whom?”

  “Enemies of the Buddha and his teachings. Whoever they may be.” Harel looked at the hideous statue that sat on the table between them, demonic and evil and menacing. “This sculpture” - he touched it - “this is a representation of the Dorje Shugden. You said it came from a temple down in the Kangra Valley. The Manjushri Meditation Temple.”

  The officer was silent for a while, staring at the fearsome image. “I do understand what you are telling me. I know about the murders and about all the suspicions of connections to priests who worship Dorje Shugden. Though I will tell you very honestly that I did not realize that this statue, this statue which we found in your brother’s home, I did not know it was the Dorje Shugden. But I must tell you that the Manjushri Meditation Temple is a very peaceful place. We have never suspected the monks there of anything bad, least of all involvement in that 1997 crime.”

  “My specialty is art, not religious doctrine or politics. But I do know that there are Dorje Shugden worshippers all around the world - they have temples everywhere - and of course they are peaceful. Like most other Buddhists. Although they insist on a very pure and doctrinaire form of Buddhism, and they see the Dalai Lama as moving away from that. You know that in 1996 the Dalai Lama denounced some of the members? And denounced Dorje Shugden worship? The murder in 1997 was seen as retaliation.”

  “And you think that all this somehow explains your brother’s death?”

  “It seems more than a coincidence that this statue was in my brother’s home after his death.”

  The officers raised his substantial eyebrows. “Professor Harel, as I said, I understand what you are telling me. But please forgive me. I am just a simple Indian policeman. I find a missing statue - a statue reported as stolen - in the home of a man who has been murdered, and I make a connection. Please tell me where I’m going wrong. What possible link is there with worshippers of Dorje Shugden?”

  Harel almost smiled, such was his frustration. He knew that he had no answer. What possible connection could there be between his brother and the Dorje Shugden? “Is that the only evidence you have that my brother was smuggling artworks? That someone killed him and you found this statue in his room? And the statue had been reported missing?”

  “We have statements. Priests at the temple, at the Manjushri Meditation Temple, they say they saw your brother receiving boxes from the priest who has since disappeared. We are getting more statements about other works that have gone. Your brother was moving around all the monasteries and temples.”

  “Can I see your statements?”

  “They shall be released at the appropriate time.”

  “So who has made the statements?”

  “I have told you that. Priests at the Manjushri Meditation Temple.”

  “Their names?”

  “Professor Harel. This is a murder investigation. We cannot release names willy-nilly. You must understand that.”

  Harel pondered all this. He looked again at the statue, glowering with hostility on the table. He knew that the Dorje Shugden was just one of hundreds of dharma protectors that were worshipped by Tibetan Buddhists. Yet thanks to a small group of priests who seemed to regard it as almost the most important of all deities, who saw it as responsible for protecting Buddhism from the blemishes and corruptions of the outside world, it had assumed a huge significance. But what was the connection with his brother? There did not seem to be much more he could say. He looked back at the officer. “I would like to see my brother’s house. I guess it’s locked up. Is there some way of getting in?”

  The officer pondered this. “I shall have one of my men take you. But you are not to touch anything. It is a murder scene.”

  “I would like to start packing my brother’s belongings. His books, especially. Putting them into boxes to send back. And there are some personal items his wife has asked me…”

  “You must not touch anything,” said the officer with surprising force. “Nothing at all. If you try to take anything you shall be arrested. Do you understand?”

  Harel resented the aggressive tone. But he knew he had little choice. He nodded.

  The officer stood and left the room again. A few minutes later Harel, still with his suitcase, was driving through the narrow streets with a junior officer in a white Hyundai Accent squad car. Heavy rain was now falling.

  Chapter 5

  Dharamsala, Northern India

  The driver was a short man who looked as if he were not even old enough to shave. “Do you often get people stealing stuff from the temples here?” Harel asked, in an attempt to launch a conversation. The man shrugged.

  He tried again. “Has much been stolen recently?”

  Another shrug. It occurred to Harel that the man might not speak much English. He gazed out the window and for a moment his attention was held by the sight of an attractive light-brown cow strolling up the street, quite oblivious to the traffic jams. The monsoonal rain was pouring down with the same intensity that Harel remembered from his years in Japan. Many of the pedestrians had raised umbrellas, further adding to the crush.

  Harel reflected again on his mother’s initial phone call.

  “Darling,” his mother had said, and already he knew it was bad. Her voice was strained, and she seemed to be crying.

  “Mum, what is it?”

  “It’s Matt. The police have been. They say he’s dead.”

  “Matt? No…” The news stunned Harel. “What happened?”

  “The police were contacted by the State Department. He was killed. Over in India. Someone killed him in his apartment.”

  “Killed him?” Harel could not believe it. This did not make sense. Somehow he had always viewed himself as the troublemaker, the one whose life didn’t go to plan, the one most likely to cause problems for his family. By contrast, Matt seemed to live a charmed life - successful schooling, a devoted wife, a young child, another on the way, and, of course, and most importantly to their parents, he was a respected missionary. “No,” he said again. Then, “What about Sue and little Josh? What about them?”

  “They’ve been with us for the past couple of months. Her baby’s due in just a week or so.”

  “Right. I’d forgotten. But that’s awful. I know she’s a tough lady, but…”

  “This is the worst of it. She’s distraught of course. But the baby’s coming. She can’t even fly over there. And they’re lying about Matt. I know they are.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “Apparently the Indian police are saying he was engaged in smuggling artworks out of India. They say he…”

  “Smuggling artworks? Matt? That’s absurd.”

  “Of course it is. Then they say he got involved in a fight with someone, and got killed. Matt! A fight! The most peaceful boy in the world. And then they won’t tell us anything else. I just phoned them in India, but they are completely uncooperative.”

  His thoughts were interrupted as the
ir car skidded to a muddy halt before a three-floor block of apartments. Peeling paint and a broken door at the entranceway indicated that they were not in millionaires’ row. They ran through the downpour into the lobby and the officer unlocked a first-floor door. Harel stepped into a tiny living area that clearly also doubled as a dining room. It was probably a study as well.

  This place was old. The walls and ceiling were cracked and marked. A small table covered in a pretty floral cloth occupied one side, next to a door that presumably led to the kitchen. A couple of armchairs and an ancient sofa, none of them matching, were on the other side, with a small desk pressed against one wall. Pictures and photos on the walls provided a homely atmosphere.

  Harel knew that Matt had no interest in fine living. He was the dreamer, the big picture man. In their family Harel was the practical one. But fortunately Matt had been blessed with a wife who could turn a hovel into a home. For an instant Harel felt a stab of guilt. He had been raised in a missionary family, yet had turned his back on it, to follow his own path. Even his own mission experience - a year in Japan, before he quit - had hardly been a trial. He had been supported by his parents’ church to evangelize in a country with one of the highest standards of living in the world. He had not exactly been suffering.

  So now to see, laid out in front of him, how Matt had been living - not just willingly, but joyfully, of that he had no doubt - caused momentary pain. He knew that he had let his parents down, and even the subsequent humiliation in church at the hands of his own father did not detract from that fact.

  But it was something else that was starting to impress itself on Harel. For he had become aware of a distinctive and unpleasant odor, akin to rotting meat. He looked down, and saw a dark, oval stain across the carpet, near the table.

  “Blood?” he asked his companion.

  “Blood,” confirmed the young officer. So he did speak English.

  Harel walked into the bedroom. A double bed was against one wall. A single bed for two-year-old Josh was against the other. Where on earth was the new baby to have slept? Perhaps Sue was planning to stay back in the States for a while. Or perhaps - the thought suddenly struck Harel - Matt was not planning to stay long in Dharamsala. But then why come at all? No, most likely Matt and Sue were planning on moving to a larger apartment once the baby arrived.