Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

The old Tibetan stared at the old brush in his hand like he had never seen one before, then pocketed it and stood, supported for a moment by one of the children. “I have soil to bring back to earth,” he declared, stepping away toward the bicycles and carts.

It seemed to take a huge effort for Shan to reach the truck, as if a great weight had landed on his shoulders. By the time Yao eased the vehicle away Surya was pulling one of the handcarts down the road, filled with four oversize ceramic pots.

“Did he know that mountain deity?” Yao asked.

“Not any deity,” Shan said in a worried whisper.

* * *

Shan did not have to ask their next destination. Yao aimed the truck toward the highest building in town and pressed the accelerator hard, as if he were suddenly desperate to get to the government center. Because, Shan realized as Yao parked the truck near the front door, it was too early for the offices to be occupied, too early for any of the senior officers to be in their offices, the perfect time to find idle computers and telephones. They had to review the other letters, understand the two-hundred-year mystery that drove Ming.

The guard at the door nodded at Yao, glared at Shan, then waved them through. Shan protested as Yao pressed the elevator button for the top floor. “There are computers upstairs,” Yao explained as the elevator slowly climbed, “in the visitor’s room by Tan’s office.”

As the doors opened, Yao darted toward the central office complex. Shan stood in the corridor, fighting a strange weakness that suddenly gripped him. It was here where he had met Colonel Tan; here where Tan had begun the strange torture of forcing Shan to become an investigator again; here, too, where Tan had abruptly given him his freedom.

When he finally joined Yao in the office, Shan sat at a terminal and quickly typed in the codes Corbett had given him. It had been the middle of the day in Seattle when he had sent the prior message, and Corbett’s team had not been idle.

Hey boss, we were getting worried-glad to have you back on line, the first reply opened. We’ve been monitoring messages day and night just in case. Received queries, back soonest, Bailey. The second message had been sent two hours later, and was captioned Dolan travel to the PRC. It spanned ten years and listed an average of two trips a year. Next came a message entitled, Donations, Dolan to PRC. It listed nearly a dozen in the past three years alone: to an archaeology project in Inner Mongolia, to three special exhibits in the Museum of Antiquities, computer labs in five cities, a restoration project for an imperial temple in Manchuria. Ming archaeology expeditions were for the recovery of frescoes from old temples buried in the desert, Bailey added.

Next came a report captioned simply, D’s phone accounts/calls to PRC. Shan called Yao to the screen. Yao began pointing to numbers as they scrolled through the long list of numbers. “The Museum of Antiquities,” he said in a tight voice, “the Minister of Culture. The Minister of Justice.”

As they stared at the screen a soft beep announced several new messages, each followed by Bailey’s name. A list of Dolan’s Chinese investments: Dolan’s private companies owned seven factories in eastern Chinese cities, interests in a dozen joint ventures. There was a hurried message Shan did not understand: The boss found out you opened papers on the babysitter. He ordered it closed. Then came two short lines on Elizabeth McDowell: Art consultant to Dolan, part owner of Croft Antiquities, with offices in Seattle and London. Confirmed traveled on same flights as William Lodi to Lhasa. Neither McDowell nor Lodi reserved flight to Lhasa in advance.

The final message contained files of photographs and a compilation of articles on Dolan’s famed Tibetan collection. Shan silently pointed to several small images on the screen as he held up the catalog Liya had given them, including the fourteenth-century saint wielding his sword of wisdom. They were all in Dolan’s collection, but excluded from his report of lost property.

“Dolan could still have them,” Yao said in a hollow voice.

“No,” Shan said. “Corbett had records of the crime scene, saw photos of all the shelves and display cases. Every Tibetan piece was reported stolen. Lodi was carrying the pieces from the museum back to Beijing, because of the audit. Maybe they were all he really cared about in the theft. The rest was cover, the rest might have stayed in America. But something happened to change his plans. He unexpectedly came straight to Tibet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the saint with the sword that he was carrying, the one they destroyed at the fleshcutters, it was the original from Dolan. Lodi gave it to Liya for safekeeping. Lodi was planning to stay at a hotel in Beijing, but didn’t. He had no time in Beijing to exchange it for the copy.”

“But why destroy it?”

“Liya said because they were sending a message to Bumpari. But I think the message was for someone else. The one who would be most hurt by its destruction.”

“Ming,” Yao spat. He stared at the screen a moment, then typed in a new question. Verify Director Ming’s travel the week after the robbery. He exchanged a wary glance with Shan. It was a question he could not safely ask in Beijing, but the FBI could access airline records.

Half an hour later they had finished examining the old letters Ming had collected, failing to find any clue to the fate of the amban. But the letters made it clear that the amban had given up his career as a general and come to Tibet at the request of his uncle, not just to play the role of the senior Chinese representative, but to find lamas who would be willing to travel to Beijing to serve in the imperial court. In his first year the amban had not only sent a dozen lamas but, with the help of his powerful uncle, had arranged for the construction of Tibetan Buddhist temples in half a dozen eastern cities.

A clink of porcelain caused them to turn. Tan sat on a table by the door, sipping from a mug of tea. “Once,” the colonel said in a tight voice, “all my visitors from the outside were behind wire at the 404. Then last month two more came, Ming and McDowell. Now, at last count, there are a dozen, brought in by Director Ming. I received a fax from Central Command. I was instructed to provide maximum support to all of them. Now my general has called. He wanted to share a secret. Director Ming has been advanced two grades in the party during the past year. He will be of minister rank in another year or two.”

Yao stood and studied Tan, as if composing a response. Tan gestured to the thermos of tea and extra mugs on a table outside the office, and the inspector followed Shan to the table without speaking. When they had settled back into the chairs by the computer with their steaming mugs, Shan explained Ming’s interest in the long dead amban, and showed Tan the letters on the discs.

“There’s a report being sent to Beijing today about the amban,” Yao announced. “It’s called Political Assassination in Lhadrung County.”

Tan’s lips curled in a silent snarl. “A lie. No one gets assassinated in my county.”

“It was over two hundred years ago,” Yao pointed out.

Shan knew the date mattered little to Tan. Newly reported murder whenever it occurred, especially political murder, would bring unwelcome attention to the county, and to its chief official.

“A new martyr,” Tan said, gazing out the window. “There was talk of this Kwan Li four or five years ago, at a conference I attended in Lhasa. The dead always make for safer politics than the living. I thought they had dropped the idea. Someone must have decided the people needed new lessons on integration of Tibet with the motherland. Now we’ll have little buttons with his likeness. Speeches to schoolchildren, speeches by schoolchildren.” He paused and looked back at them. “But he can’t know the amban died in Lhadrung. It’s impossible. The Chinese ambans never had business in Lhadrung. It’s not on the route back to Beijing. Prince Kwan died in the north.” Tan lit a cigarette. “He’s here for the fresco. If he’s not finding the fresco he should leave.” He seemed to be talking to himself, staring out the window now. “I made some inquiries. His fieldwork was supposed to be back in Mongolia. He changed it to Lhadrung on two weeks’ notice, with a satellite project in the north. He said it was to research herding cultures. But I checked. It was where Kwan Li supposedly died two hundred years ago. He starting making arrangements too.” When he turned to face them his eyes were lit with a cold anger. “He changed his field project days after the theft of the fresco.”