Bird turned the pages. He became aware of a voice. It sounded . . . foreign. He looked up to see who it was.
But there was no one.
He returned to the book and again heard the strange voice. Looked up. No one.
He realized then that the voice was coming from him. But what was it saying?
Om mani padme hum. Yes, of course—that mantra. Odd that he remembered it. Odder still that it sounded as though it were being uttered by someone other than himself. He vaguely remembered coming across it during his crash tutorial in Tibetan Buddhism. It was the mantra of . . . Chenrezig, Lord of Love, Tibetan bodhisattva of compassion. Strange. At the time Bird had thought it sounded quaint, silly. Oops, there it was again!
Om mani padme hum.
The syllables were pleasing.
Om mani padme hum.
He said it aloud, over and over. It felt as though he were giving himself a mind massage. The phrase made him smile. His vocal cords were vibrating like organ pipes. It tickled!
Om mani padme . . .
“What the hell are you doing now?”
“. . . hum?”
Angel stood in the doorway, hands on hips: a blond, scowling goddess.
“Were you chanting?” she demanded. “Were you actually chanting? Oh. My. God. Please tell me you weren’t chanting.”
“But I was. Try it. It feels wonderful. Repeat after me: Om mani—”
“No!” Angel covered her ears with her hands. “No, no, no, no! I am not in the mood for chanting!”
“It might relax you, darling. You seem a bit tightly wound. You could try saying ‘Randolph’ over and over, but I’m not sure it would have the same effect. By the way, since we’re coming clean with each other, could I ask—who is Randolph?”
A steely look of triumph came into Angel’s eyes.
“It’s the name I use for my vibrator.”
Bird weighed this information. He nodded thoughtfully. “I’d guessed Randolph Churchill or Randolph Scott. Well”—he smiled—“I hope I measured up.”
“Do you know what those Cro-Magnons you call ‘the boys’ are doing? Aside from firing cannons at boilers? Teaching my eight-year-old to skin a possum.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yes, oh, dear. And he’s covered in possum uck. He and his charming new friends are going to cook it. Where’s the recipe from? Martha Stewart’s Deliverance Cookbook?”
Bird felt a wave of very dark energy, as though his soul were being Tasered. He thought, Interesting. Now, where is this coming from? The answer came to him straightaway: revulsion at the thought of a living being turned into food for other beings. Suddenly the prospect of eating flesh was repugnant to him. Funny. And he’d always loved cheeseburgers.
“They make possum stew,” Bird said. “It’s part of the living history. They’re very much into authenticity. I suppose it would hardly make much sense to dress up in 1860s uniforms and then order in pizzas and Big Macs, would it?” He smiled. “Bewks says it’s not half bad, so long as you put in a lot of Tabasco sauce.”
“It’s disgusting,” Angel said. “And probably riddled with rabies. I told Barry to come inside with me, and he wouldn’t. Do you think any of them tried to help? No. They just stood there. Sniggering.”
“I wouldn’t take it personally. It’s just their way.”
“It was humiliating! And now I come back to the bedroom and you’re chanting. What’s that about? Are you trying to achieve some kind of authenticity? God, this is a nightmare.”
“You know, darling, this mantra you find so annoying comes down to us through the centuries, all the way from Avalokiteshvara.”
“Spare me.”
“There’s no exactly literal translation for it.” Bird said. “And of course we Westerners must have our literal translations! At the heart of it is the idea—if it could be called an ‘idea’—that if we take mani as our refuge, Chenrezig will never forsake us . . .”
Angel was staring wide-eyed.
“. . . and spontaneous devotion will arise in our minds and the Great Vehicle will be effortlessly realized.” Bird winked at her. “Pretty neat, huh?”
Angel sat on the edge of the bed.
“Bird,” she said, “please tell Momma that you just made all that up. It’s from your novel, isn’t it? That’s it. It’s from the novel.”
“Oh, no.” Bird shook his head and smiled. “I could never come up with something as deep or pure as that.” He laughed. “Funny. Along with this weird serenity I’ve been feeling is the realization of how truly crappy my novels are. I should be sad or even angry, having wasted all that time and energy on them. But realizing that they suck feels so . . . liberating.” Bird was waving his hands in the air joyously, like a man finally released from prison. “Why do I feel so darn happy?”
Angel stared.
“But getting back to the mantra,” he went on, “the commentary on Avalokiteshvara is from Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche. Wow. Where is this all coming from? I’m not questioning it. Rinpoche means ‘priceless jewel.’ And no, Miss I Hate Religion.” Bird laughed. “Not gold or pearls. It’s another word for ‘lama’ or ‘teacher.’ ”
Angel looked about the room, as if sending out a silent 911 to spirit-world EMTs to come and rescue her from her maniac lover.
None came. She said, “I’m going now, Bird.”
Bird smiled and nodded. “Yes. Yes.”
“Is that all you have to say to me? After everything?”
“You get it, Angel! You get it!”
“Get . . . what?”
“That we all have to go our own way—in order to arrive at the same place!” Bird held up his hands in a triumphant ta-da!
“O-kay,” Angel said in an anodyne voice as she gathered her things and tossed them into her bag. “Momma’s leaving now. Leaving. Lea-ving. Leaving now. Good-. . . bye.”
A few minutes later as Bird was reading about the custom of sprinkling flakes of gold and saffron on the funeral shrouds of the dalai lamas, he became aware of shouting.
“Barry! Barry! Get in the car! I said now, young man! No, leave the bayonet!”
There was a commotion of ignition: a roar of exhaust, a revving of pistons, a sudden, violent displacement of gravel.
Then . . . silence. Laughter.
Silence. Lovely silence.
Bird wondered, Is silence the sound of eternity?
Yes!
CHAPTER 45
LOT OF BODY PARTS IN THAT SENTENCE
CHINA THREATENS “DIRE CONSEQUENCES” IF U.S. PROCEEDS WITH PLAN TO STATION DALAI LAMA SATELLITE IN ORBIT OVER TIBET. The president stared balefully at the headline on his desk. “I thought you told me we had this under control.”
“I told you that we were working toward getting it under control,” Fancock replied.
“Convenient preposition, Rog.”
“Patience, sir, patience. There are phases to this operation. Phases. Like the moon.”
“All right. Trade you prepositions. When do we get to being over the moon?”
“From my point of view, sir, yesterday would not be soon enough.”
“The launch is set for Wednesday, Rog. Today is Friday.”
“So it is. And another blissful weekend of government service looms. Rest assured, sir, that Wednesday is the yin and yang, the omphalos, the telos, the ne plus ultra and sine qua non of my existence. Never have I looked on a Wednesday with such intense longing.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” the president said in a loud voice.
“It means, sir”—Fancock’s voice rising with the president’s—“that on Thursday either I will be standing here before you dancing a jig, even at the risk of looking ridiculous, or they’ll find my lifeless body hanging from a rafter in the Indian Treaty Room.”
The president stared. “Why the Indian Treaty Room?”
“High ceilings. Longer drop from the balcony. Cleaner snap.”
“Fa called me again yesterday.”
&nbs
p; “Yes, I read the transcript. As is my practice whenever you speak with world leaders.”
“And what was your takeaway?”
“That President Fa, too, yearns with all his heart for Wednesday to be in his rearview mirror. Sir, let us at least acknowledge—”
“For God’s sake, Rog, don’t tippy-toe with me.”
“—that President Fa has more at stake here than you do. One way or the other, Thursday will find you sitting behind that desk, president of the United States. Thursday could find President Fa in a rather different situation. For him this is, well, life or death. So to speak.”
The president considered. “I did pick up some tension in his voice. These reports about his weight loss and erratic behavior . . . We sure he’s dealing off a full deck?”
“Oh, I earnestly pray so, sir. If not . . . well, I’d really prefer not to think about that.”
“High stakes here, Rog.”
“I am well aware of that.”
“Shouldn’t have let you talk me into this in the first place.”
Fancock stared. Oh, no you don’t. “Is that so? Well, I should never have let you talk me into taking this job in the first place.”
The two men glowered at each other.
“Oh, stand down, Rog.” It was said gently.
“I don’t like being fitted for a coffin. If it comes to that, I’m prepared to walk the plank. It’s not my style to pass the buck. You ought to know that by now.”
“I do. But if Fa can’t restrain his generals . . . Damn it, Rog, what if they shoot the thing down? Then what? By the way, why are we calling it ‘StupaSat-14’?”
“Stupa is the name for Tibetan Buddhist tombs. And he was the fourteenth Dalai Lama. It was Chick Devlin’s suggestion. I don’t really care what it’s called, frankly.”
“But what if Han blasts it out of the sky?”
“Then,” Fancock sighed, “we would have to respond.”
“And then they’ll respond.”
“And indeed we will re-re-respond. And there you have the history of civilization in a nutshell.”
“Christ, Rog. The sky’ll look like the August Perseid shower. Shooting stars everywhere.”
“Not a consummation devoutly to be wished, sir.”
“Rog, could you not talk that way just now?”
“Sorry, sir. The encumbrance of a classical education. Look, let’s stay with the playbook. Even if we wanted to beat retreat at this point, it’s too late. Surely you owe it to your friend President Fa, whose neck is the one on the line, not to go wobbly in the knees.”
“Lot of body parts in that sentence, Rog.”
“Starting Thursday, I will endeavor to be more orderly in my metaphors. Assuming I’m not dangling from a beam in the Indian Treaty Room.”
“Get out of here, Rog.”
“Oh, gladly, sir. Gladly.”
“SIR?”
“What, Bletchin?”
“Mr. Strecker on the secure.”
“Speak to me, Barney.”
“Just got the word. The jury has reached a verdict in People v. Lo Guowei.”
“When are they coming in?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Damn it, Barn. We’re up against the clock.”
“What am I now, sergeant-at-arms of the Politburo Standing Committee? How about a pat on the back, here? ‘Splendidly done, Barney.’ ‘Why, thank you, Rogers. It was rah-ther clever of old Barn, was it not?’ ‘Yes, and really, old bean, you must come for tea the next time you and the memsahib are on Bea-con Hill.’ ”
Fancock sighed. “Splendid job, Barney. Can we skip the rest? We’re running out of time.”
“In other words, ‘Thanks, Barn, but what have you done for me in the last five minutes?’ ”
“Barn, there’s no time for stroking bruised egos!”
Silence.
“I apologize,” Fancock said.
“That’s some improvement.”
“All I seem to do these days is apologize. If it makes you feel any better, five minutes ago I was in the Oval, apologizing to the Big Guy.”
“We’re moving Phase Two up. Sort of merging with Phase One.”
“Thank God.”
“You can thank God if you want. I know how you Episcopalians like to write thank-you notes. But Agents Mankind Is Red and Beluga have been breaking a little more testicle sweat than the Almighty has.”
“Strange bedfellows, Barn. A former head of Chinese State Security and a Russian émigré Internet billionaire working together, one from a San Diego hospital bed, to penetrate through the Great Firewall of China.”
“It’s all about motivation, Rog. Zhang’s as patriotic as the next Chinese Commie, but Fa’s been like a son to him. The chance to protect him and neutralize the guy who screwed him out of the top job at MSS—two birds in that bush. For Lev Melnikov, it’s a trifecta: Lo messed up EPIC’s China operations. This is the payback hack. Then there’s the technical challenge, which, being a nerd, how could he resist? And never overlook the good old money factor. This thing works, I imagine EPIC will be back in business in the Middle Kingdom.”
“If this thing works, I will bestow kisses on any part of their anatomies they so designate.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along. I don’t doubt they would both cherish having their derrieres osculated upon by the great Rogers P. Fancock. How’s Dot doing?”
Barney Strecker was the only human being on the planet whom Dorothy Fancock allowed to call her “Dot.”
“Giving me what-for about that photo. Apparently it’s Topic A among the Georgetown ladies.”
“Better be careful. Might get yourself a reputation as a dirty old man. All right. Start saying those Episcopalian prayers. I will be in touch.”
“Please, do be.”
THE FIRST ITEM APPEARED on the People’s Liberation Army website, eight.one.nineteentwentyseven.cn.
Confidence in the leadership at the highest level is said to be diminishing with rapidity. Many of our esteemed military commanders are beginning openly to question whether Fa Mengyao is up to the challenge of leading China through the current crisis, brought about by the illegitimate Formosa regime’s blatant and provocative spying on our coastal defenses by a so-called shrimp boat.
The second item went up on the website of the army newspaper, howgloriousisthesoundoftanks.cn. It questioned Fa’s “erratic handling” of the Tibetan crisis and reported that the president had “tried to talk the members of the Standing Committee, including our beloved General Han, into allowing the stinking corpse of the self-proclaimed ‘Buddha’ to be given burial on Chinese soil. Fortunately for China, others in the chamber successfully protested against this capitulatory and dangerous gesture.”
The third item, appearing on the PLA website redisthecolor ofvictory.cn, was in a more satirical mode. It called attention to the president’s “unaccountable weight loss,” “haggard appearance,” and “bizarre behavior.” It closed with “Perhaps Fa Mengyao also has a pheochromocytoma in his brain. If this is the case, he should immediately depart China (quickly, please!) and go to Cleveland, Ohio, USA. Maybe the doctors there have improved!”
The fourth item, which went up on the military website theworldtrembleswhenourgeneralssneeze.cn, struck a minatory note:
Our great General Han is said to be “stomach-sick” at Fa Mengyao’s continuing licking of the American boot and his craven willingness to allow the Americans and their fellow-traveling criminal Tibetan elements to colonize China’s airspace. Fortunately, he is resolved to take action if the Americans proceed with their ill-advised provocative scheme.
There were a half dozen more similar items, appearing within twenty minutes of one another.
Strecker had a bet with Lev Melnikov that no item would remain online for more than five minutes. He lost. One stayed up for eight before being taken down.
CHAPTER 46
A MOST VILLAINOUS HACK
President Fa glanced around the table. Never
had the faces of the members of the Politburo Standing Committee looked so grim. The atmosphere of embarrassment was suffocating.
General Han stammered, “Comrade President, I . . . I . . . ”
Fa held up a hand. “Comrade General, we have other business to conduct first. Then we shall discuss”—he sighed heavily—“your matter.”
“They did not originate from within—”
“General.” Fa spoke so sharply that the members sitting nearest him flinched. “Later.”
Fa studied the folder before him. He began:
“This is the report of the investigation by the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection into whether our security organs played a role in the apparent assassination of the Lotus in America. For reasons that will not be necessary to explain, no duplicate copies of this will be made. You may study this copy in this room, after our meeting is concluded. In the meantime let me tell you what it says.
“ ‘Item 1. Comrade Agent Chang followed correct MSS procedure by alerting MSS Beijing to the contact made by Director Fancock. The meeting at the restaurant was at all times under surveillance by MSS–Washington.
“ ‘Item 2. Autopsy report.’ ” Fa drew a breath. “The document appears genuine.”
The room stirred.
“ ‘Death was caused by intracerebral bleed secondary to hypertensive emergency. Metastatic pheochromocytoma. Cocaine intoxication proximate to the time of death. A copy of the full autopsy is attached to this report.
“ ‘Item 3. Hospital security camera footage. Examination could detect no tampering, erasures, or insertions. Digital time stamp is intact and time-stamp encoding is consistent with chronology of Lotus expiration.
“ ‘Item 4. Identity of individual seen entering and leaving Lotus’s hospital room. Enhancement of film reveals certain physical characteristics (misshapen right earlobe and missing fourth digit on right hand). Examination of MSS Thirteen Bureau operatives produced positive identification.’ ” Fa looked up and said, “His actual name has been redacted.” He continued to read: “ ‘Identity confirmed MSS Bureau Thirteen operative code name TACONITE. American national. Chemical specialist. Twenty-three eliminations, North America and Canada. Present whereabouts TACONITE unknown.’ ”
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