The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3)

by Adam Lance Garcia

  Dumont glanced at the open window overlooking the jagged white and purple expanse of the Himalayas. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. They remind me how small I really am.”

  Tsarong knelt down beside Dumont and the two men stared out into the distance in silence. It was almost an hour before Dumont spoke again.

  “We are but pebbles on the shore,” Dumont sighed.

  “Hm?”

  “Oh. It’s just—We’d been sitting here awhile… Thought someone should say something that sounded profound.”

  Tsarong chuckled. “Pebbles on the shore. Ah, yes, I must remember that.”

  “Have you ever been to New York City, Tulku?”

  “No. And I doubt I ever will,” Tsarong said.

  Dumont slowly nodded in consideration before he continued. “It’s an awful city. Full of so much decadence; one can become lost in his own hubris. You see, back home, in the mountains of brick I was a giant, magical and mysterious, almost a god if I wanted to be. But here, looking out onto these mountains, I truly know where I stand. I am a man, nothing more, simple and solid all the way through.”

  Tsarong hoped his face did not betray him. How little the young man understood of his destiny, of what he really was. “The Buddha said that the joys and sorrows of beings all come from their actions, their past lives; from their karma. Your karma brought you your wealth just as it brought you here. You are more than flesh, Jethro, far from simple and solid. You are the accumulation of dozens, maybe even hundreds of lives,” he said.

  Dumont raised his eyebrows in approval. “Yeah, that was sufficiently profound.”

  Tsarong smiled before he noticed Dumont idly playing with the Jade Tablet. “Any discomfort?” he asked.

  Dumont glanced down at his hands, once again consciously aware of the rainbow ring of hair tied into his right middle finger. “No,” he said quietly. “Just not used to it. I gave up trying to get rid of it.”

  “Yes, I heard there was quite a bit of blood.”

  A rueful smile cracked Dumont’s face. “Yes. Quite a bit. There are symbols on it, in the fibers. Did you ever notice that?”

  Tsarong nodded. “Would you like to learn how you remove it?” he asked in response.

  “Yes.”

  “Then there is more blood to spill.”

  • • •

  Pain echoed through Jean’s leg, each step more excruciating than the last. As far she could tell they had been running for six hours straight. Aïas wouldn’t let them stop moving for more than a few minutes at a time, pushing them further out into the wilderness where the only lights were the pinpricks of starlight in the sky.

  “I need to slow up a bit,” Jean shouted to Aïas a few yards ahead of her.

  “No time,” Aïas said, refusing to look back.

  “I gotta wonder if you’re leading me into a trap,” Jean said, pointedly drawing her pistol. “Hate to burst your bubble, buddy, but I’m a good Montana girl and I don’t go down that easily.”

  “Do you normally pull guns on men you are working with?” he asked without looking back.

  Jean cocked the pistol’s hammer. “Only men I don’t trust. What’s your game, mister?”

  Aïas shook his head. “No game. We made a deal. Keep your end and I will keep mine.” He gestured at the gun and added, “if you do not kill me first. Come, we need to get over this ridge before the moon gets too high. Hurry up.”

  “Tell that to my leg,” Jean said with a grimace as she pocketed her gun. Something tickled her nose, a strange smell she couldn’t identify.

  “The slower we go the more likely we are to get caught. Samothrace is a small island, with very little in the way of forest and caves. Not many places to hide. Learn to walk or stay behind,” Aïas said. “I will take care of it when we stop.”

  “Which will be when?”

  “Later.”

  “You could at least pretend to care,” Jean grumbled under her breath as she climbed over a half-rotted tree. Her foot got caught on a branch, twisting her leg and tossing her to the muddy ground, ripping open the wound. She screamed as blood began to spill.

  Aïas sighed as he slowly turned to face Jean. “What is it now?” he asked sharply.

  “I—I think I, oh God, I think I br—broke it,” she whimpered, keeping her eyes shut, unable to look at her leg.

  Aïas walked over and carefully lifted her free of the muck. Carrying her over to a small clearing, he unraveled the bloody wrapping and cautiously examined her leg.

  “How—How bad?” Jean asked, trying to ignore the overpowering pain as Aïas silently redressed the wound.

  “We make camp here,” he said as he finished dressing her leg. He stood up and began collecting wood for the fire.

  • • •

  “Here’s a joke,” Dimitri said as he locked the glass cabinet behind the counter.

  “Oh, here we go,” Andonis said, burying his face in his hands. He had hired Dimitri several months ago more out of pity than his skill as a salesman—and definitely not for his sense of humor.

  “No, listen,” Dimitri said earnestly. “This is a good one. Really.”

  Andonis kept his face buried and groaned in response.

  Dimitri held his hands up, setting the scene. “Three men walk into a store—”

  “Stop,” Andonis said as he uncovered his face and pointed a stern finger at his employee. “You’re not telling that joke. Everyone tells that kind of joke. Sometimes it’s three men, sometimes it’s a horse, but no matter who walks into that bar it’s lazy and it isn’t funny.”

  “I heard it the other day from Teodoros,” Dimitri whimpered.

  “And how does that make it good?”

  Dimitri gave Andonis a wide-eyed expression. “It’s Teodoros.”

  Andonis sighed and massaged his eyes. “Will you just go close up the cellar, please? I want to get home before the sun rises—or before Anthe kills me, which is much more likely.”

  “Fine, fine!” Dimitri said as he threw his arms in the air, grumbling to himself as he climbed the stairs down to the cellar. “Man wouldn’t know comedy if it bit him in the ass.”

  “Idiot,” Andonis sighed. It had been days since they had made any sort of sale. The economy wasn’t as bad as it was in the rest of the world—most people said that was thanks to General Metaxas—but that hadn’t stopped Andonis’s business from slowly falling into failure. He doubted he could last until the end of the year, let alone the month. But he kept opening the door, hoping for some sort of miracle to walk through so that maybe one night Anthe wouldn’t greet him with one of those reproachful looks.

  He walked over to the counter and reached for the bottle of ouzo hidden beneath the register when the front door slammed opened, jolting Andonis from his thoughts. Andonis jumped up as three men marched in. He recognized the man in front, but couldn’t remember from where. From the way he walked Andonis was certain he was American. He was dressed in an elegant suit, singed at the edges, the shoulders smoldering as though he had just walked through a fire. The other two men looked as if they had just finished riding a tornado. The smaller one in particular looked as though he had been painted green, whereas the taller one seemed to favor his right leg.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the lead man said in perfect Greek. “I don’t mean to impose at such an hour, but perhaps you can help us. My friends and I are traveling and were in a—” he paused, glancing back at his compatriots, who both shrugged noncommittally. “My friends and I were in an accident and have lost our luggage. We would like to purchase some clothing if at all possible.”

  Andonis idly scratched behind his ear. “Well, I’m sorry, sir, but we’re closed for the evening. Perhaps if you come back early tomorrow morning we could—”

  The lead man reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a long, slightly burned book and a pen. “Do you take checks?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Checks,” the man repeated. “You take checks, of cou
rse? These are from my account in Athens…”

  “Oh, ah… “Andonis furrowed his brow, considering. “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Good,” the man said, quickly jotting down a number onto the check. He spun it around so Andonis could read it. “Will this cover your overtime and all of our potential purchases?”

  Andonis’s eyes widened and he felt his jaw slacken. “Yes, sir. Whatever you need.”

  “Excellent!” the man said, signing the check, tearing it off and handing it to Andonis. “Please get these two men anything they ask for. I will take four of your finest suits, we can get them tailored later, and shoes to match.”

  “Right away, sir!” Andonis exclaimed, holding the check gingerly as he read the printed name below the signature. “Wait. You’re—Wow! You’re—”

  Jethro Dumont allowed a small smile to crease the corner of his lips. “Yes. I am,” he nodded.

  “I saw you in a newsreel! You dated—Oh, I forget her name!” Andonis snapped his fingers in frustration. “Bette Davis, right?!”

  “Briefly, yes.”

  “Tell me,” Andonis raised an eyebrow. “How was she in the… you know?”

  “I try not to dwell on past relationships,” Dumont said with a noticeable frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but if you could take care of my friends, please.”

  “Oh! Oh! Yes, of course! Dimitri! Dimitri!” he called down the cellar. “Come back up here, we have customers!”

  “Pull the other one!” Dimitri shouted.

  “Get up here, you idiot!” Andonis barked.

  “And, um, sir, can I ask you a few questions?” Dumont quietly said, placing a hand on Andonis’s shoulder as he leaned in.

  “Oh, of course, sir!”

  “Well, firstly, do you have any green hooded robes?”

  • • •

  They had arrived on the docks one night several months ago during one of the worst storms Kamariotissa had seen in over a decade. It was still vivid in Vasili’s mind, the black clouds that seemed to soak up the sun and the sky, the rain and the lightning that came at all angles. No one had seen their boat arrive, their clothes soaking wet as if they had walked out of the sea. They hid their faces beneath coral masks; the eyeholes covered in black glass, shaped like a nightmarish idea of what a human should look like. It wasn’t just the masks, though. It was the way they walked, as if they were still learning to use their legs, swaying arrhythmically like a broken metronome; and how they talked, or rather didn’t, only ever speaking in whispers, breathing their words in long gasps of air. He wasn’t even sure if they had names; they were simply known as the Twins.

  Whatever you called them, Vasili didn’t trust them and were it not for his boss, Alexei—who had been more than happy to work with the Twins from day one—he would have avoided them like the plague. Right now, they stood in the shadows at the front of the meeting house, looking over the gathered mass of townspeople, whispering to each other in their warbling native tongue.

  “So, what do you think, Vasili?” Petros asked, slapping Vasili hard on the back. Petros was at least a head shorter than Vasili, his body ropy from years working the docks. He was also deadly fast, able to move in and out of the shadows without a sound. There were at least a dozen unsolved murders that Vasili knew could be attributed to Petros. “You look like crap. Late night, eh? Knocking boots with Sotiria again?” Petros asked as he scratched at his unshaven jaw.

  “Bad dreams,” Vasili replied.

  Petros sucked his teeth, disappointed he was denied any racy details. “Pretty big crowd, eh?”

  Vasili looked over the people shifting in their seats and milling in the aisles. Alexei had stationed him and Petros by the front doors, just in case. That was, in effect, Vasili’s job; he was always there “just in case.” He guessed there were about one hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty people filling up the space by now, a dull roar of conversation echoing up to the rafters. There were familiar faces scattered amongst the seats, but only one stood out: Sotiria, whose amber gaze Vasili could feel raking over his body.

  “You know what I think?” Petros said, aggressively tapping his bony fingers against Vasili’s arm. “I think they got Astrapios’s killer. Yup. They got her. It’s gonna be a whole big announcement. You’ll see. They’ll be hanging her by morning. Swing, swing.”

  “You actually think the American girl did it, huh?” Vasili asked with a sideways glance.

  “Aw, yeah. I mean everyone saw her leaving the place.”

  “I dunno, Petros, she seemed all right to me.”

  Petros waved a dismissive hand at Vasili. “Everyone seems ‘all right’ to you. A Turk could walk in here with a rifle in one hand, a dead Greek baby in the other, and you’d go over to try and shake his hand.”

  Vasili ignored this. “Still, I doubt, of all things, Alexei would call a meeting to announce an arrest. You know how he felt about Astrapios. Hell, Alexei was practically dancing on the man’s grave.”

  Petros shrugged in concession. “True, true… Wait, you’re not saying, that you killed…?” he began, aiming a finger at Vasili.

  “And here I thought Alexei made you do it.” Vasili smiled bitterly. “Old man probably did it himself and framed the girl, just like he did with that judge back in ’34.”

  “Except I was the one who did the killing and it was the mistress we framed,” Petros corrected. Laughing, he nudged Vasili with his elbow. “Though I did get to go a couple of rounds with her before she got the rope.”

  Vasili bit back a venomous response. Disgusted as he was, ultimately, who was he to judge? Had it not been for Alexei taking him under his wing as a boy, he would’ve been working the docks, struggling to keep his belly full.

  “It’s probably about that storm we had this morning, then,” Petros ruminated, returning to the topic at hand. “Did you see it? Black as night it was.”

  Vasili nodded. “We’ve seen worse,” he said. “Speaking of which, your two favorite people are here tonight,” he added, indicating the Twins.

  “They smell like week-old fish,” Petros said, sucking his teeth.

  “I figured you’d be used to that by now,” Vasili commented.

  “They smell like month-old fish. Month-old fish that’s been sitting out in the sun,” he corrected.

  Vasili chuckled at that. He didn’t like Petros, but he did make him laugh.

  A door at the front of the hall burst open, throwing the house into silence. Vasili noticed that even the Twins—twitchy as they were—had ceased their discussion. There was a smattering of unenthusiastic applause as Alexei walked onto the stage, his smile as false as his masked friends’ faces. He wore a simple outfit, as he almost always did, his white hair slicked back. He was tall, slim, tanned and well built for his age, his outwardly joyous manner a veil for a violent temper. As sheriff, Alexei was the most powerful man in the small port city after the now deceased mayor, and as corrupt as Alexei was it had always been debatable as to who really ran the show. Vasili had long ago settled that debate for himself.

  “My friends, thank you so much for coming on such short notice. It means quite a bit,” he said with mock humility. “Now I’m certain you’re all wondering why it is I called for this meeting tonight…” He let the word trail into silence. Vasili rolled his eyes. Alexei was forever the showman. “Unfortunately, we have not yet captured our dearly departed mayor’s killer, but as our friend Oretis here can attest to, she is not such easy prey.” Alexei indicated the wounded policeman in the audience, his shoulder bandaged from his encounter with the American woman. There were a few uncomfortable chuckles around the room. Very few had taken the death of mayor Elefterios Astrapios lightly, but they knew better than to show Alexei otherwise.

  “Yes, do not worry, we shall find her soon, mark my word,” he said, finger aimed at the heavens. “But that is not why we are here tonight, my friends. No, tonight I am here to tell you of a wonderful opportunity for the citizens of Kamariotissa in these unsure ti
mes. As many of you may have noticed, there has been some very unsettling news coming from up north. There’s been talk of war; another Great War, in fact. While I can’t speak for the rest of Greece, I can say to you now, should war ever come to this continent, it will not find itself at our doorstep.”

  “That’s a pretty tall promise,” someone shouted from the audience.

  Alexei smiled warmly and clasped his hands together. “Indeed it is. Allow me to show you how I intend to keep it.” He gestured toward Vasili and Petros. “Gentlemen,” he said,” f you would.”

  Vasili and Petros eyed each other as they turned to open the doors, mystified as to Alexei’s plans. Looking out into the dark of night he heard the crowd audibly turn in their seats as twenty men, all of them dressed in matching grey uniforms, marched in tight formation behind a black-collared man in dark grey regalia, a pencil thin mustache lining his upper lip. The black-collared man walked into the meeting hall, arched his back, clapped his booted heels together and shot his right arm forward, palm down.

  “Heil Hitler.”

  CHAPTER 4

  BLOODLETTING

  “ARGGGH!” Dumont screamed as the blade cut across him, leaving a thin line of blood across his chest.

  Tsarong placed his sword into its sheath as he stepped back. “What did you do wrong?”

  “What did I—? You cut me with a goddamn sword!” Dumont yelled, indicating the chest wound.

  “You attacked in anger, leaving yourself exposed,” Tsarong lectured, ignoring Dumont’s protests. “When the fire of anger touches you, do not grasp it. Release it like a burning coal lest it burn you. You must let go of your anger.”

  Dumont grimaced as he sheathed his sword. “I mean no offense, Tulku, but you are not helping your case right now,” he said in a huff.

  “Buddhism is the middle way,” Tsarong said calmly. “We follow a moderate path, avoiding extremes such as asceticism or indulgence, eternalism or nihilism. We must find the balance within ourselves, and burn away the evil inside us that obscures our basic goodness if we are to even the scale.”

  “‘Even the scale?’ ‘Burn away evil?’” Dumont asked incredulously. “I didn’t come here to burn—let alone fight—‘evil,’ Tulku. I came here to find purpose, to understand my destiny. I came here for peace and all I’ve found is madness. First, I get bonded to a scary magic ring,” he said, waving his ringed right hand, “and now, swordfights! Shouldn’t we be sitting around, cross-legged and humming ‘Om! Manny padmay hoom’— or whatever it is you’re always muttering—instead of slicing me in half? I thought Buddhists are supposed to be peaceful!”