They Eat Puppies, Don't They?

by Christopher Buckley

  “Yeah,” Bird said. “Tough customers.”

  Chick sounded gleeful. “It’s an outrage. I hear he’s a peach, the Dalai Lama. I’ve always been attracted to the whole Buddhism deal.”

  “Maybe you should name a new nuclear missile after him. I’m sure he’d be honored.”

  “You call me on that landline soon as you get to the office.”

  Bird continued on toward his office on K Street. His clothes were dampening in the heat, which was rising off the pavement in nearly visible thermal layers. He wondered how much he should tell Chick. Chick was obviously thrilled, but the story had gone dead. Old spidered hits on Google were diminishing returns. He could always tell Chick about Angel’s idea of going down to the American Legion and rustling up a hit team.

  Assassination. Intrigue. Secret phone calls. Bird felt like a character in one of his novels. He rather liked the feeling. He considered. What would Buck “Turk” McMaster do in this situation? The answer was—play it cool. Frosty.

  Bird had barely sat down at the desk when the phone rang. Chick.

  “You son of a bitch,” Chick said. “You son of a bitch. You evil genius.”

  “I feel your joy,” Bird said. “But don’t go wetting your pants just yet. In case you hadn’t noticed, our saffron-robed friend has fully recovered. He’s bouncing around, hugging the pope, and giving speeches on the environment. I wouldn’t be surprised if next photo we see he’s shooting hoops with the Harlem Globetrotters or banging a tambourine onstage with Bono.”

  “Be a shame to lose the initiative, Bird.”

  “I’m shakin’ it, boss, I’m shakin’ it.”

  “Well, keep shaking it. I got a bull down here who’s snorting to be let out of the pen.”

  “Oh, yes. How is that bull of yours?” Bird said.

  Chick lowered his voice. “We ought not to be talking about this, Bird. Even on a landline.”

  “You brought it up. Oh, and by the way, my colleague, the very fetching Angel Templeton, knows all about your bull.”

  Bird heard a sharp intake of air over the line.

  “That can’t be,” Chick said. “That just couldn’t be.”

  “Asked me flat-out what I knew about it. By name. The T-word.”

  “Holy . . .” Chick spluttered. “Damn. There is just no such thing anymore as a secret. You didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

  “What could I tell her? You haven’t told me squat. Me, your faithful servant of how many years?”

  “Lord God,” Chick muttered.

  Bird decided to make Chick suffer for being so hush-hush about Taurus. He said, “According to her, word on the street is it’s all about muons.”

  “Muons?” Chick said. “Muons?”

  “They’re subatomic particles.”

  “I’m a physicist! I damn well know what a muon is.”

  “No need to get huffy.” Bird was immensely enjoying this.

  Chick was spluttering. “Did you say ‘word on the street’? You mean to tell me people are talking about this? All over Washington, D.C.?”

  “That was the impression she gave me. Yes.”

  “This is bad, Bird. Very bad. This just couldn’t be worse.” He sighed. “There’s a leak.”

  “Call a plumber. It worked for Nixon.”

  “Damn it, Bird, this is serious.”

  “Hey—don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “All right. Not your fault. Angel Templeton, she’s one of the good guys, right? I mean, she’s on our side, correct?”

  “Oh, huge fan of Groepping. Loved the upgrade package on TACSAT-4.”

  “Yeah? Maybe we ought to get her down here, give her the ten-dollar tour. Put her on the Vomit Comet.” Groepping’s 757, used to acquaint trainee pilots and astronauts in the physiological joys of weightlessness.

  “I’m sure she’d love nothing more than to spend an afternoon puking up breakfast in a zero-g environment.”

  Chick said, “You stay on this Dalai Lama thing. And you definitely let me know if you hear any more about people walking round yapping about Taurus. Muons. That town of yours drives me up a wall, Birdman. A wall.”

  “President Kennedy called it ‘a city of southern efficiency and northern charm.’ ”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Bird thought, in all the years he had worked for Chick, never had he heard him quite so rattled. Taurus must be quite the bull.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE HUMANITARIAN THING TO DO

  Comrade President, Minister Lo has arrived.”

  “Show him in, Gang.”

  Lo had requested the meeting. A matter of “the highest urgency.” Fa had an uneasy feeling in the stomach.

  The two men greeted each other with wonted collegiality but dispensed with pleasantries. Lo took from a crimson leather attaché a single piece of paper and laid it on the president’s desk. “Only I and four people have seen this document.”

  Fa took a breath and read the first line:

  Results of Medical Testing on Subject 7255.

  “Seven-two-five-five?”

  “The Tibetan.”

  Fa made note of Lo’s oddly neutral terminology. Was this not the occasion for the usual Dung Lotus remarks?

  He read to the bottom of the page, swallowed, removed his eyeglasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You say that only ourselves have seen this?” Fa said at length. “But surely the Italian doctors are aware?”

  Lo shook his head. “No. Our people at the hospital in Rome switched the blood and urine. And the chest X-ray.”

  “Switched—with other people’s?”

  “It was to our advantage to know more, Comrade, and for others to know less.”

  “But the bad clam that he ate. What was—”

  “Someone else ate the bad clam, Comrade. An American tourist named Winchell. From Portola Valley. In California.”

  Fa was impressed—truly—by the competence of Lo’s people. A cigarette. He must have a cigarette.

  Lo was already holding out an opened flip-top pack of Marlboros. He had acquired the taste for them during his tour of duty in America. His nickname at the ministry, used by very few people, was “Cowboy.”

  Fa exhaled smoke, nerves steadying from nicotine. “But the Tibetan’s people—they have no knowledge of this?”

  “None,” Lo said. “This we know for certain.”

  “But how could this be? Surely he has had physical exams in the past. Wouldn’t they have picked up . . .?”

  “He’s had medical problems. Gallbladder infection. Pinched nerve. Dysentery. Routine things. Something like this, you would have to be looking for specifically. It must have developed since his last checkup. Maybe physical health isn’t your top priority if you believe you’re going to be reincarnated.” Lo tapped his cigarette ash. “We have people in his circle. And we know that no one’s aware of this. If this diagnosis is correct—and there’s no reason to think that it is not—there will be another episode, another collapse. But we don’t know when, or where it will occur. And when it comes, we may not have the same access to him that we had in Rome.” Lo sat back in the heavy armchair. “When they do more tests on him, then they’ll know.”

  Fa reread the paper on his desk. He said the strange long word aloud: “Pheochromocytoma.” He read on: “A tumor of the sympathetic nervous system, arising from the adrenal glands, manufacturing an excess of epinephrine.”

  “Cancer,” Lo said, lighting another cigarette. “It’s spread to the lung.” He extended the pack of Marlboros toward the president.

  “No, thank you,” Fa said. He sat back in his chair. “Well, I suppose this will solve our Tibetan problem.”

  Lo nodded pensively and pursed his lips. “It solves one problem, Comrade. But it creates another. A serious one.”

  “The succession? But we already have the next Dalai Lama picked out.”

  “Yes, yes, but that’s not the problem.”

  “Explain.”

&nb
sp; “According to our medical people, he’s got maybe two months. Plenty of time to create trouble.”

  “Specifically?”

  Lo said with just a slight air of condescension, “I assumed you knew. Once he learns that he’s dying, he’s sure to petition to be allowed to return to Tibet.”

  “Yes.” Fa nodded. “In all likelihood, yes.”

  “And that cannot be allowed.”

  Lo caught the look on Fa’s face. He added, “Of course, Comrade President, that is not my decision. I’m only a servant of the party. I’ll make my recommendation and report as usual to the State Council. But I hardly need to point out to you that the council, as well as we in the Standing Committee, would never permit such a thing.” He added, as if to insert a note of levity, “I don’t suppose I need to tell you what our good General Han would say to such an idea.”

  After the last uprising in Tibet, General Han had publicly expressed his desire to “grease the treads of our tanks with the guts of five hundred lamas.” Quite the flair for public statements, General Han.

  Fa’s mind worked over the problem as Lo continued.

  “As you’re aware,” Lo said heavily, “the funeral protocol for Dalai Lamas is called stupa burial. The corpse is dried and entombed. So not only do you have the problem of his returning there to die and spending his remaining days stirring up anti-China hatred. But we’re then left with the relic. And relics”—he shook his head slowly—“relics are always problematic. You have the shrine. Then come the worshippers. Pilgrimages. Do we want a Vatican or a Kaaba or a Jerusalem in our backyard? I think not.”

  “No,” Fa said. “Certainly.”

  Lo leaned forward, a look of playfulness on his face. “So here’s the immediate problem: It’s announced that he’s dying. He petitions for return. We refuse—as we must. But what then? Our enemies use it against us. How callous is China—refusing the dying request of this wonderful person? See?”

  “Doubtless there would be unpleasantness. But in the end it’s back to business. Look what happened after ’89.”

  “Ah.” Lo smiled. “But why not avoid all that?”

  “I don’t follow you, Comrade Minister. Tell me plainly what is on your mind.”

  “Suppose,” Lo said, “the Dung Lotus were to die before it is discovered that he’s got this pheochroma . . . this cancer tumor?”

  “How ‘before’?”

  “Well, Comrade.” Lo shrugged. “There are all sorts of ways.”

  Fa blinked. “You mean, kill him?”

  “If you want to put it that way.”

  Lo spoke as if he were discussing something as prosaic as a recipe for cake. “There are so many ways, Comrade. Dozens. We have an entire division for this. Thirteen Bureau. It could be made to appear like a heart attack. Some other natural cause. The chemicals these days are so advanced.” He smiled with an air of proud professionalism. “Unlike the Russians, I prefer not to leave my fingerprints all over the body. But that’s the Russians for you. They wanted everyone to know they’d killed Litvinenko. That’s why they used polonium,” he said dismissively. “That’s not our way.”

  Fa was straining to remain composed. He tried to imagine they were discussing a budgetary matter. His stomach was in knots.

  “Such a step,” he said at length, “surely, an . . . enormity.”

  Lo stubbed out his cigarette. “Considering the alternative, I would call it a lesser enormity.”

  Time. Need time, Fa thought. He said mildly, “I have no authority to rule on such a matter. It’s for the Standing Committee, in consultation with the State Council. Yes. Such a thing would be for the party to decide.”

  “Comrade President. Comrade General Secretary. With all respect to the State Council, the Standing Committee, and our great party, there’s no time for endless meetings. Any moment now the old boy is going to collapse, and when he does, they’ll find out what he’s got, and then it will be too late. He’s already a dead man. All we would be doing is to hurry things along a bit. For the good of China. If you think about it, we’d be helping him. Relieving him of suffering. Really, Comrade.” Lo smiled. “If you think about it, it’s the humanitarian thing to do.”

  “Perhaps. Nonetheless, Comrade, a decision of this magnitude calls for at least some meetings. We are Communists, after all.”

  Lo looked about the large office, as if he were a tourist admiring a historic space. “This was the Great Helmsman’s office?”

  “Yes,” Fa said cautiously. “This was Chairman Mao’s office.”

  “And now you are chairman. So, lead us. Not every decision, Comrade, consists of neat columns of numbers on paper.”

  “Thank you for your report, Comrade,” Fa said a bit stiffly. “I will consider this.” He added, “In the meantime no action is to be taken. I trust that is clearly understood?”

  Lo stared at the president. “Of course, Comrade.”

  He left without proposing a date when President and Madam Fa might come to his home to sample Madam Lo’s dumplings.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE GATHERING STORM

  Thumpathumpathumpathumpa . . .

  Bird was on the treadmill at Abs Fab, a fitness center near his office. His routine was to run until the sweat drenched his shirt to below the sternum.

  He channel-surfed as he ran, eyes glazing through nonpremium channels: an infomercial about how to get rich selling a new type of “precious” gem called Exquisium; a “Breaking News” report about a warehouse fire in Lincoln, Nebraska; an interview with a model he had never heard of, promoting nutrition in a country he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard of; a report on steroid use among golfers. Golfers on steroids? Why not? Everyone else in sports was on them. On C-SPAN, an author he had definitely never heard of was promoting a book he was certain he wouldn’t read, much less buy. The Cooking Channel. The World at War. Dive-bombing Stukas. Eeeeeeeee-boom. The Home Improvement Channel. How to get out even the stubbornest grout mold. It was enough to make one yearn for the good old days of three networks, plus the station you needed the funny round antenna to get.

  Bird checked his shirt. Damp to the pecs. Almost . . .

  Cartoons. Soap opera. A suspiciously handsome young doctor was telling a suspiciously healthy-looking woman hooked up to tubes and wires: “We did everything we could. But we won’t know until we get the report back from Path.” An 800 number: Operators were standing by, operators who cared—really cared—about your debt problems, ready to consolidate all of it into single, convenient monthly payments. A rerun of Friends. That preposterous-looking bounty hunter with the hair and the tattoos; his even more preposterous family, lying in wait to ambush a stoned nineteen-year-old who had obviously neglected to consolidate all his debt into one single, convenient monthly—

  The crawl at the bottom of the screen announced:

  REPORT: DALAI LAMA COLLAPSES

  DURING MEETING WITH PRINCE CHARLES

  Whoa.

  Bird punched the red emergency Stop button on the treadmill and stood on the suddenly inert rubber belt, sweat trickling into his ears, soaking the earbuds of his headphones.

  He dressed without showering and, as soon as he hit the sidewalk, phoned Angel on her cell.

  He could barely hear for the background noise. “Where are you?”

  “Chuck E. Cheese. Can’t talk. Sweetie, not on Melissa’s dress. No, Charley. Charley, please don’t do that with your french fries. Charley. Take the french fry out of Brendan’s nose, please. I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “Angel. Forget the french fry in Brendan’s nose. We’re back in business.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We are back in business. Guess who just keeled over during a meeting with the Prince of Wales?”

  “Who?”

  “The Dalai Lama, dum-dum.”

  Silence.

  “Isn’t that great? Now you don’t have to hire your friends to finish him off!”

  Silence.

  “Hello?
Angel?”

  Her voice was one degree above freezing. “I have no idea who this is or what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s Bird. Ditch the ankle-biters. Get to a TV. I’ll meet you at your office in an hour. We’re back in business!”

  “You must have the wrong number.”

  Angel hung up.

  Bird thought, What was that about?

  A FEW HOURS LATER, he was in the Military-Industrial Duplex, watching TV news with one eye and tapping away on his laptop, mining cyberspace for every nugget about the Dalai Lama’s collapse at Clarence House. This is what he knew so far:

  His Holiness had been having a private discussion with His Royal Highness when he collapsed. He had coughed up blood. Some bitchy British commentator had said, “An hour with Prince Charles could make anyone bring up blood.” God save the prince.

  For some reason they’d taken His Holiness to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. A team of eminent physicians headed by Sir Eldryd Perry and Professor David Moore were in charge. Not much information yet. “Hemoptysis” was apparently medical-speak for coughing up blood. There was some thought it might have to do with “worms.”

  A crowd had gathered outside the hospital and was growing by the minute. Flowers were being laid, so many that Mortimer Street was now impassable. Candles. Dr. Moore emerged briefly to speak to the crowd. His Holiness was “conscious and resting comfortably.” He thanked everyone for their prayers and apologized to Prince Charles for “leaving him in such a rude manner.”

  The lobby phone rang.

  “Buzz me in,” Angel said.

  Bird opened the door. Angel burst in—literally, shoving Bird to one side in the hallway. Her face was flushed. She wheeled on him.

  “Idiot!” she exploded. “ ‘We’re back in business’? On a cell you tell me this?”

  “I . . . thought you’d want to know.”

  “ ‘Now you don’t have to hire your friends’—your friends— ‘to finish him off’? I can’t believe you said that. Why not just tweet it?”