Eliot Pattison - Mandarin Gate

“Tell him Shan demands to speak with him.”

Two minutes later the constable handed the phone to Shan, then hurried out of the room. Shan did not give Liang a chance to complain. “Major, you are going to meet me in Baiyun this afternoon,” he began.

He had three hours to wait, and no stomach for the condemning stares of those on the streets of Baiyun. He retrieved Yuan Yi’s tablets from the truck and took them to the little shed behind the professor’s house. He murmured a little prayer as he left them, and the ancient mandarin’s badge, inside the secret shrine, then drove to the empty marketplace. He left the truck and began climbing the trail that wound up the steep ridge above the town. At the top he found the outcropping where he had been with Jamyang as they confronted Jigten. It seemed a lifetime ago. He sat on a flat boulder and gazed down the valley, then noticed a deposit of white sand at the base of a rock. He sifted it in his fingers, making a circle on the flat surface of the rock, then within it the outlines of temples. It was the simplest of mandalas, the kind young boys had once been taught when they first entered monasteries. Lokesh would make such a shape and gaze upon it for hours, envisioning the deities that dwelled in each chamber.

As he stared at the sand image he recalled Chenmo’s description of how the abbot had made a mandala at the convent but had mistakenly arranged the deities on it. One of the nuns had seen Lokesh walk toward the convent to work there that night and had spoken with him, out of Shan’s earshot. Lokesh had gone right to the mandala and spent hours correcting the mistakes. He recalled how melancholy had seeped into Lokesh’s wise, gentle eyes after he had examined the abbot’s work. Lokesh’s way of seeing the world often cut closer, and quicker, to the truth than Shan’s. At that moment, Shan knew now, his old friend had sensed something wrong, something out of balance at Chegar.

He gazed in the direction of the shrine where Jamyang had died and murmured an apology. Shan had been too blind, too slow, to understand the path Jamyang had left for him. The lama had raced to save the tablets from Jigten because they were the first clue on the path. He had wanted Shan to investigate, to know why he had had to take such terrible steps, perhaps even to assure the truth came out if somehow his plans went awry. The ribbon had been left on the altar to lead Shan to the tablets, the tablets had been meant to lead Shan to Yuan and his daughter, who had the journal that connected Jamyang to the Peace Institute.

He was halfway down the slope when he saw the grey car speeding toward Baiyun. The demon sent by Beijing was making one last appearance in the valley.

* * *

“You were supposed to bring me the American!” Liang roared as Shan entered Meng’s office alone.

“I did not say I would deliver her in person. I said I could sell her to you. Worth more than some outlaw lama surely. Then there’s the abbess and that Chinese criminal Lung.” Shan fought the temptation to turn to confirm that the constables were still in the outer office.

Liang’s hatred for Shan was a living thing, a serpent that seemed to writhe inside before the major opened his mouth. “I will see you dead before I am done!”

“Just a business transaction,” Shan replied in a level voice. “A thousand for my patriotic killings. Another thousand and I’ll tell you where to find the American.”

Liang glanced into the outer office. All he had for backup was Meng and the taciturn Tibetan constables. Liang gave a nod, as if acknowledging the constables, then Shan heard the sound of the main door opening and shutting behind him. Meng probably had no stomach for the scene.

The major spat a curse. “You didn’t kill them.”

“You mean to argue against my petition?” Shan shot back. “By all means. There are procedures, committees who hear such disputes. I will write everything down, explain how I had to act to protect the glorious work of the Peace Institute. I have the pistol,” he said, setting Jamyang’s weapon on Meng’s desk. “You threw away the killer’s bullet so no one can say otherwise. They were at the convent that day to stop the abbot of Chegar from infiltrating the exile government so I did the work of any good patriot.”

Liang did not react at first. His face remained impassive as he studied Shan. “I see now you are dead inside, Comrade. You have no political consciousness. I don’t have to kill you. You are killing yourself.” He dropped a bundle of currency on the desk.

Shan pocketed the money.

“And the American?” Liang seemed to struggle to keep from striking Shan. His eyes narrowed to thin slits as he tossed a second bundle of money in front of Shan.

“There’s a field of rock formations a mile south of the monastery. You can’t miss it. On the top of a hill just off the highway, with a view in all directions. She will be there at sundown, waiting to meet some of the purbas.”

Liang hesitated, as if confused by Shan’s words. He had not expected Shan to speak of purbas, or the rendezvous point with the smugglers. His gaze drifted down to the top of the desk, his eyes working back and forth until at last his lips curled into a thin, lightless grin. He gestured Shan to the far side of the office then sat, opened his computer, and began rapidly tapping the keys. He could not risk going to the monastery, Shan knew, but he had to get word to his agent about the gift Shan had just given them.

“She’s yours to deal with as you wish then,” Shan said as Liang shut his computer with a victorious gleam. “Unless the American consulate calls.”

“What are you talking about?” Liang snarled.

“I took a photograph of her,” Shan lied. “With a copy of yesterday’s Lhasa Times. If anything happens to me the photo gets mailed to the embassy.”

The rage quickly rekindled in the major’s eyes, then burst into flame.

Shan jumped an instant before Liang leapt for him.

“Seize him!” the major roared as he grabbed the truncheon Shan had earlier placed on the desk. Shan swerved away from a violent blow, then darted into the outer office. With a groan of sudden despair, he saw that the office was empty. Through the window he caught a glimpse of Meng and the constables standing at the back of the parking lot and froze in panic. No! They had misunderstood! They had not been inside! The constables had not heard!

He regained his senses in time to swerve as Liang took another vicious swing with the stick.

Liang’s fury raged like a bonfire. Chairs fell over, files were knocked on the floor in his frenzy. One slam of his baton broke the back of a chair, another left a long scar on a desktop. He wanted nothing more than to lay a skull-shattering blow on Shan. “This time no one will see your name in the record!” Liang roared.

Shan glanced at the clock on the wall and parried another furious downstroke.

“The manacles!” Liang shouted. “Chain him!” Shan sensed movement in the doorway. The constables must be coming back. They could at least witness Liang’s fury and they could learn the reason afterwards. He glanced at the clock again, then ran around Liang into Meng’s office. As the major gained on him he grabbed Liang’s computer on the desk and held it like a shield.

“Bastard!” Liang hissed. The serpent inside had full control of him.

The first hammer blow of the truncheon split the top of the laptop, the second tore the top away, the third split the keyboard and spilled electronic shards onto the floor. Liang hesitated only a moment as he saw what he had done, then kept smashing at the machine, desperately trying to reach Shan’s head. Shan retreated backward toward the door until suddenly strong arms seized him. As Shan’s hands were being cuffed behind him, Liang slammed the baton into his belly, dropping him to his knees.