Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

“That came later, more recently,” Shan offered, still watching McDowell, “when Ming started arresting old Tibetans and raiding personal altars. I believe it when she says she wants them all gone, wants the strangers out of Lhadrung.”

Punji turned back toward Shan and offered him a grateful nod. “Ming’s arrogance will keep him from seeing the truth for a while. If we hadn’t planted that tomb last night he would be here right now. He’s so obsessed. He would bring soldiers, have them shoot anyone who gets in his way. He is feeling invincible.”

“You’re in his way,” Shan observed.

“But I know him. I know them all. Don’t you see that I am the only one who can do this, who can save Zhoka from them, with no one getting hurt.” She returned Shan’s steady gaze, her eyes so hopeful now he wanted to believe her. “You said something about showing us the next level.”

“Enlightenment is the goal of the temple,” Lokesh said. “You must approach the temple as a pilgrim.”

Punji winced. “So enlighten us on how to get through the labyrinth.”

“I think,” Lokesh said slowly, “that there is no labyrinth.”

The British woman threw her hands up in frustration and aimed her light toward the chapels they had not yet explored.

“There is no maze for those who see through appearances,” Shan ventured, stepping closer to his old friend. Punji turned back to face them.

“In the entry there were two writings,” Lokesh explained. “The first said the greatest wisdom is seeing through appearances. The second was another old scripture. The only thing that is ours we look for elsewhere.”

“You think the entrance to the next level is right there,” Shan said.

“I didn’t then,” the old Tibetan said, stroking his grizzled jaw. “But now I think at least the answer to the riddle is there.”

McDowell turned, shining the light behind them now. “Go,” she said.

Moments later they reached the chapel where Khan was guarding the others. Ko squatted close to the big Mongolian, speaking to him in a low, casual voice.

McDowell quietly spoke to Khan, smiled at Ko, then ordered Lu to stay with Khan and the rest of the group, to hold Dawa, Liya, and Ko as hostage so the others would not run while they unlocked the secret of the maze.

“Why should we help you solve the puzzle?” Corbett demanded as they arrived at the entry chamber. “Because of you that girl was killed.”

“I will do whatever it takes to show you Lodi and I killed no one,” the British woman said. “But right now there’s something more urgent. You get me upstairs to the record chambers that must be up there and let us get out of Zhoka. You’re the genius art sleuth-help me figure out where the amban took the torn thangka. Then we’ll talk about Seattle.”

Yao glared at her. “I don’t make deals with criminals.”

Punji gave another of her exaggerated winces. “I’ve commited no crimes on Chinese territory.”

“Foreigners are here at the government’s discretion. We can deport you merely for associating with criminals. Permanently close the door.”

“Deport a British aid worker? Imagine the diplomatic tempest that will create.”

“No one is to get hurt,” Shan said. “When we finish we go our separate ways.”

“Except for the one called Lu,” Yao interjected. “We take him with us, back to Lhadrung.”

There was worry in McDowell’s eyes as she gazed at Yao. “You don’t know that one. Be careful what you wish for.”

“He was the one who took the emperor’s painting,” Yao declared. “The gear we found, the gloves, the tools, they were too small for that Khan. Lu must be the plaster man. He stole the fresco here, he stole the Qian Long fresco in Beijing. I want him. Cooperate now if you ever want to leave China.”

“A moment ago you were going to ship me out. Now you won’t let me leave. Make up your mind.”

“Sign a statement, tell us what you know. Enough for Lu to expect hard labor for twenty or thirty years. That will be enough for me to obtain what else I need.”

“Lodi’s dead,” Shan reminded her. “It’s never going to be the same.”

“I don’t betray people. He’s just doing a job. Why should I ruin his life?”

“So we can get Ming. He betrayed the trust of the Chinese people.”

“If you don’t help us you will have betrayed all the people of Bumpari,” Yao added with an apologetic glance at Shan. “Your family.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we have no way to link Ming to the stolen fresco, then we will have to try to stop him with evidence of the forgeries from the village,” Yao said. “We have Lodi’s accounts.”

Punji clenched her jaw. “All the more reason not to cooperate.”

“Make a deal,” Shan urged, “Yao can promise to keep Bumpari out of this.”

“I never said-” Yao sputtered.

Shan cut him off with a raised hand. “If everyone compromises a little Bumpari can be protected. It would be what Lodi would want. What Brother Bertram would want. What the lamas would want. That is my price for helping.” He looked at Yao. “Every investigation of a man like Ming ends in compromise,” he said, challenge in his voice.

Yao frowned but said nothing.

Punji bit her lip and stared at the image of the saint, and slowly nodded. “We still have to find the old records. And you’ll never get out of here safely without me.”

She returned their lights to them, and they began examining every inch of the walls, studying the smaller images in the murals, reading the painted text, studying the patterns in the colors. Corbett pointed to the top of the wall, which was bordered in small renderings of sacred symbols on colored backgrounds.

“White, blue, yellow, green, red, black,” the American said, pointing to each in turn. “Then it starts again.”

Lokesh shrugged. “The seed syllables,” he said, as if he thought everyone understood.

“Seed sounds have colors associated with them,” Shan explained. “White is om, blue ma, yellow ni, green pad, red me, black hum. ”

“Om mani padme hum,” McDowell said. “The mani mantra. The faithful must keep invoking the Compassionate Buddha to find the true path.”

Corbett stepped to the wall, looking at the patterns of color in the murals. He pointed to the squares surrounding the image of Atisha. “There is only one white, and one blue,” he said, pointing to a square by the saint’s shoulder and another near his lowered right hand. He turned to the next painting, pointing to the only yellow and green squares in the mosaic of small portraits, again in the same pattern as the first two, then to two red and black squares on the third wall. “Put a line through each and they point to the bottom right corner of each wall. He bent to show them that the bottom right corner of each was a brown square, part of a different color pattern along the bottom of each vivid wall.

The fourth wall had no pointers. “What was it you said,” the American asked Lokesh. “We must see through appearances. And the thing we seek elsewhere is always right there with us.” Corbett knelt in the corner and an instant later gave a small cry of discovery. “The other walls were telling us to look at the corner of the fourth wall,” he said, showing how the square was a hole, not black as it appeared at a quick glance-a dark hole disguised by the pattern. “Something goes inside. A handle.”

Shan looked at the mendicant staff that hung over the door.

Moments later Corbett inserted the long handle of a staff into the hole. He pushed it tight and lifted. Nothing happened.

“I thought I heard something,” Yao said. “A click, maybe a release of something.” He pushed the wall above the hole. Nothing. Corbett and Shan pushed together, shouldering it, Yao joining in. Still nothing.