Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

“South? There is nothing south.”

“South,” Tashi repeated.

Shan gazed down the street that led south in silence, then jogged back to Tan’s waiting car. He explained what he and Yao had discovered about Ming’s use of forgeries as they drove, speaking until the aide eased the car to a stop in the shadow of the wall around the abandoned brick factory.

They stayed in the shadows, crouching as they ran past the silver car, silently entering the open door. Lu was busy at a crate as they entered the loading dock of the main building, pasting a label over another label. “You can’t just-” he snarled as he looked up, reaching for the pistol in his belt.

There was no sound, no warning. Tan’s hand flew up, slamming the back of his own pistol against the side of Lu’s head. Lu collapsed onto the crate. Inside the cavernous main hall of the building Ming had his back to them, standing with a clipboard in front of over twenty crates, some open, showing shredded paper as packing material, while a small black box played Western rock music.

Tan turned off the music. “Croft Arts and Crafts,” he read loudly from the freshly pasted label on the nearest create. “Shanghai.”

Ming spun about, eyes flaring.

“No doubt a contractor for the museum,” Tan said.

“Of course. Restoration specialists,” Ming said uneasily, searching the shadows behind Tan.

Tan shrugged. “Shouldn’t be hard to verify.”

“You have no authority,” Ming spat.

“Perhaps you forget that this county is under martial law. You may be surprised at how much authority that gives me. I can send you to reeducation camp for a year or two without having to consult with anyone.”

“Authority perhaps, in this forgotten backwater. Real power, no. Try it and I’ll ruin you. People in Beijing will learn about it.”

“By the time they do I will have had time to verify things.”

“Things?”

“The statement by Mr. Dolan that you switched priceless artifacts in the museum for forgeries,” Tan lied. “Your business arrangements with William Lodi. What do you suppose the Chairman will do when he hears you stole the Qian Long frescoes, then lied to him about a letter implicating Lhadrung? He’ll have to make an example out of you. The fresco was in the public eye. You were a trusted public servant. The Chairman was embarrassed diplomatically.”

Ming glanced at the door.

Tan looked at his watch. “If you hurry you can catch the evening flight to Beijing.”

Ming took a step forward, stopped, obviously confused.

“You’re free to go,” Tan said. “But you’ll only get this offer once. Tell me where the Qian Long fresco is, and I guarantee you will not be executed. Prison, for many years. But no bullet in the head.”

Ming returned Tan’s stare, then looked at his clipboard as if returning to his business. “I never killed anyone,” he said in a distant voice. “No one was supposed to die. That was Dolan. It was all Dolan.”

Shan stepped to a long, narrow crate. Inside, a slab of plaster was wrapped in bubble wrap, supported by wooden slats. He pulled at the plastic, revealing a richly painted chain of lotus flowers along the top of a thick piece of plaster infused with horse hairs. The fresco taken from Zhoka.

“I’m not going to surrender to that bastard Yao,” Ming said.

“You don’t have to. Just know that it was Yao and Shan who stopped you.”

Ming’s hollow gaze settled on Shan a moment. “You’re just one of the homeless convicts,” he said. “Nobody.”

“What did you do with Surya at the gompa, Ming?” Shan demanded. “After you told him you were an abbot you did something else. You crushed him. You made him think his life was a waste.”

Ming fixed Shan with a thin smile. “I had my computer with me. The old fool had never seen one. I told him I could create wonderful works with the motion of a finger. I opened the computer and called up the program I have that reproduces famous paintings, creating a painting with each tap of my finger. He was terrified. He cried. But when I left the old fool kissed my hand.”

And that night, Shan knew, was when Surya had destroyed his own art, had decided his life had been a sham. Because an arrogant stranger from Beijing had tricked him with a computer.

Ming turned back to Tan. “Dolan’s insane, you know. People ignore it, because he’s so rich. Like some of the old emperors.” He stepped to the crate with the fresco, fingering a long piece of tape that extended from the top, then abruptly stepped to the crate with the papers, extracted a clean sheet, and began writing. “The emperor’s fresco is in a shipping container full of computers. Agent Corbett will have to help. It was scheduled to arrive in Oregon yesterday.”

The guest compound was overflowing with strangers by the time Shan and the colonel arrived. Two ambulance trucks were parked by the gate, one with its lights flashing, a dozen utility vehicles nearby. Reporters had arrived from Lhasa, an officer reported to Tan, the U.S. embassy had called with inquiries about Dolan’s accident, and three generals had left messages.

Dolan’s body lay wrapped in canvas on a table by the fountain. Several men were photographing it as one of Ming’s assistants was being interviewed in front of a television camera with the table in the background.

Tan escorted Shan to a shed on the far side of the compound, where a soldier stood guard. “Public Security comes for him tomorrow,” the colonel reminded Shan. “We’ll have to take him to the brig,” he added, referring to the military jail at the army base near the 404th camp. They had already deposited Ming and Lu there, under heavy guard, after taking their complete statements. “This afternoon.” The colonel fixed Shan with a steady, impassive gaze. “They say he wasn’t any trouble,” he added, then wheeled about and marched away. Tan was saying this was the end, that Shan would have to say good-bye to his son now.

Shan stared at the closed door a long time, trying to find words. The guard finally muttered something, then turned and shoved the door open. Ko sat on the dirt floor, his hand freshly bandaged, his outstretched legs straddling a familiar bag.

Ko looked up, his face empty. “Lokesh said you would need this,” he said, and pushed the bag toward Shan. It was his retreat bag. They stared at it in silence for what seemed like a long time.

“When we were in the gorge,” Ko suddenly said, “wrapping her body in the shroud, Lokesh told me something. He said don’t mourn her death, mourn that she had only just begun to know herself. He said of all the mysteries in life, the greatest is that of finding our own deities.”

Shan saw that his son was holding something in his good hand, a long canister of lacquered bamboo. “I had wrapped it in the blanket,” he said as he lowered himself to the ground. “But I never thought it would…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Ko leaned over and dropped the canister in front of him. “They have been in our family for five generations,” Shan said. “You are the sixth.” He pushed the canister back to his son.

Ko stared at it a long time before taking the canister in his hand again. He held it differently this time, more gingerly, even awkwardly, bracing it with his bandaged hand as he turned it, studying the faded ideograms on it before he opened the top and looked inside.

“There are sixty-four of them,” Shan said, as Ko pulled the lacquered sticks from inside.

“Prayer sticks, Lokesh called them. Like beads, I guess.”

“They were your great-grandfather’s, his father’s before. You use them to find verses.”

“Verses?” Ko asked.