Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

“It is,” Ming said, amusement back in his voice. “The colonel said it was most convenient. Secure. Hidden. Close to the prison trusties, close to the soldiers.”

As the car skidded to a stop two minutes later Shan discovered that his hand had clamped around the lao gai tattoo on his forearm.

A single huge military tent had been erected fifty yards from the razor wire gate of the prison camp. Four military trucks were backed up to the tent, being loaded with stacks of equipment and boxes on wooden pallets. Shan forced himself out of the car and began to examine the supplies going into the trucks but could not stop his gaze from repeatedly drifting toward the prison camp. He found a spot in the shadows by the front corner of the tent and squatted, studying the compound inside.

Most of the prisoners were on work detail, still clearing fields by the cliffs at the far end of the valley. But as usual the sick, the injured, and the dying stayed in camp. Figures in tattered pajama-like clothing hobbled around the yard between the barracks, carefully avoiding the line of white lime laid on the ground ten feet from the fence, the dead zone where prisoners were not permitted to enter. He fought wave after wave of emotion. Inside the wire were men Shan knew, some of the bravest, strongest, and yet most serene men he had ever known. The men who had preserved him, who had given him a new life, who had forever changed the universe Shan lived in. They still lived there, in rags, half starved. Images flashed before his eyes, of an old man lying on the ground, a tooth kicked out because he had been caught with prayer beads, of a young monk shot in the head for leading a protest against the warden, of Lokesh sitting in the snow with two old lamas praying for the souls of the guards. Suddenly he found himself standing in the rough grass on the far side of the road, an arm stretched toward a bent figure walking between the huts. He meant to call out a greeting but the sound came out like a sob. There was abrupt movement beside him, prison guards jogging toward him, muttering curses. They seemed somehow distant and unimportant, despite the anger in their voices. He stepped away from them, toward the fence, into the dead zone that surrounded the camp, suddenly desperate to look into the faces of the prisoners.

Something hit him behind the knees, a baton, and he dropped, instinctively curling into a ball, his head tucked into his chest, knees up, hands over his neck. After a long moment he realized nothing had happened, no stick had landed on his head or back, no boot had kicked him. He looked up to see two guards hovering over him, cruelly grinning, batons in their belts. Beyond them others were watching, half a dozen soldiers, several trusties. And Yao. As Shan straightened his limbs and stood, the inspector stepped into the shadows as if he did not want Shan to know he had seen.

“Idiot,” one of the guards growled.

“There will be time enough, Shan,” the second hissed. “We have a place waiting for you inside. You’ll be back.” He motioned Shan back toward the tent, slapped his companion on the back with a laugh, and marched back toward the gate.

A strange weakness overcame Shan. He sat on the running board of one of the trucks, watching as Ming and Colonel Tan conferred forty feet away. The loading was proceeding at a near frantic pace. He noticed several of the prison guards who had been at the guest compound the day before, followed the steely gaze of one to a slim worker in the blue clothes of a trusty. Ko still wore his cold sneer, and Shan began to wonder if it was a permanent part of his expression. Ko was carrying a box onto a truck, moving slower than those around him, his hooded eyes restless, watching everyone, studying the open wooden crates from which backpacks were being loaded with cooking kits, sleeping bags, and other supplies, casting furtive glances toward the guards.

A trusty carrying a small plastic drum of water suddenly stumbled, dropping the container, the drum popping its seams and launching a spray of water onto those nearby. Work stopped a moment as prison guards shouted at the man, soldiers laughed, and one of Ming’s assistants jogged forward with a reprimand, directing the man back to work. But Shan watched the scene only out of the corner of his eye, for as the others had watched the little drama, Ko had kept moving, changing his route, carrying a box near the stack of crates where with a quick motion he snatched something and stuffed it into his shirt without breaking stride.

As Ko carried his load to a waiting truck Shan stepped toward the crate where his son had stopped. It was a receptacle for several types of equipment. Binoculars, belt packs, canteens, even folding shovels. But Ko had taken something small. Near the front were compasses, rugged military compasses, and pocket knives. Ko must have taken a compass or a knife, perhaps both.

Shan watched the youth weave through the crowd of workers, cutting in front of older men who clearly struggled with their burdens, setting another box on the tailgate of a truck then stepping along a line of soldiers, two fingers raised, until a soldier gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. Ko leaned back on another truck with a superior air, studying the others as he smoked, watching one of Ming’s assistants set a tin mug of steaming tea on a table then quickly, carefully stepping by the table and stealthily lifting the mug, carrying it back to the truck, where he drained it. He dropped the empty mug into the shadows under the truck, observing the scene with sleepy, hooded eyes, pausing to look at Shan long enough to direct a plume of smoke toward him, not moving a muscle when an old Tibetan trusty dropped his load near Ko’s feet, scattering a box of butane fuel canisters and canned goods across the ground.

“I had him assigned to us,” Yao suddenly interjected from Shan’s side. “As one of our porters. You haven’t had a proper reunion.”

“No,” Shan shot back. “No reunion.” He turned and faced Yao, saw that Yao was stuffing one of the pilgrim guides into a pack. “Take him off our team. Send him away,” Shan demanded. The aching he felt now was alien to him, a strange mix of revulsion, anger, fear, and guilt. And an unexpected sense of loneliness. Not love, certainly not affection, just a stabbing loneliness. He recalled the years he had spent imagining Ko running, happily playing with other children, reading old teachings, going to temples on festival days to make offerings to ancestors the way Shan always had. But the real Ko was a cruel, arrogant, drug-dealing gang member. The bigger the lie the more bitter the truth.

“Elizabeth McDowell.” There was reluctance in Yao’s voice as he spoke the name, as if it were a truth he did not wish to acknowledge. There had been one more message from the FBI when Yao had gone back to Tan’s office. “They had decided to check the travel records of everyone whose name they had. She was with Lodi all the way, not only from Beijing to Lhasa, but from Seattle to Beijing.”

“She knew the Dolan collection. Lodi needed help,” Shan said. He was not surprised at the news, only surprised that Yao seemed so upset by it. “They were partners in everything.” He looked back toward the valley. “She would be one to appreciate the irony of what happened today,” Shan said tentatively, glancing about to be sure no one else was within earshot. “Sort of a tribute to Lodi.”

Yao turned to face Shan, inquiry in his eyes.

“The tomb was as fake as some of the artifacts he displays in Beijing,” Shan said quietly. “It was just the foundation of an old chorten, an old shrine. The farmers in the valley probably know of a dozen such places, buried when the shrines above were demolished.”