Don Winslow - The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

But he felt the energizing simplicity of desperation. It felt great to be done with the myriad complexities of intrigue, with the subtle maneuvers, with the twisted emotions, with the damn thinking. The whole mess had come to a race up a mountain, and the fresh air and open spaces sang to him as he settled into a pace.

He realized he hadn’t been alone in three months, not for a single hour, and he certainly hadn’t been free. Now he looked up at the magnificent panorama of mountains and valleys, and he felt… clean. He hadn’t felt clean in a long, long time.

The climb began abruptly as the grassy plateau gave way to a narrow saddle and the dirt trail yielded to a more formal stone path. The saddle emptied into a thick grove of bamboo, beyond which was a stone bridge over a fast, narrow stream. On the other side of the bridge, Neal passed under a large open gate to the bottom of a steep knoll. The stone steps flanked the edge of a wall, behind which was an enormous temple. Neal paused at the first landing and felt the pins and needles in his legs. The trail ahead of him went straight uphill for as far as he could see. It was going to be a long day.

And he had to find an elephant.

No, not an elephant. The elephant. On a Chinese mountain.

Speaking of elephants on Chinese mountains, he thought… I’m probably pretty conspicuous now that daylight’s here.

He walked up the stairs until he came to an open arched gate, then stepped inside. He was standing at the edge of a large courtyard where a small battalion of monks were doing t‘ai chi. Other monks, who looked like young novices, scurried about with wooden buckets of water and bundles of firewood. Neal surmised that they were getting ready for the old after-t‘ai chi breakfast. Neal sidled along the edge of the courtyard beneath a tiled portico, then slipped through the first open door.

The sanctuary was full of statues, sticks of incense smoldering in their stone hands. Neal hit the staircase just inside the door and found himself in a hallway in front of a row of rooms. In the trusting, cloistered atmosphere of the monastery, the rooms were unlocked.

So much for trust, Neal thought, as he went inside the first room. A heavy shirt and a pair of peasant trousers hung on a wooden peg. Working clothes, Neal thought, as he held the shirt up against his chest. It was much too large, so he tried the next room. Still too large.

He hit the jackpot at the end of the hallway, where a larger room had eight kangs and eight sets of work clothes. Must be the novices’ dorm, he thought. He found a set of clothes that fit loosely, then stripped off his own Western clothes and changed into the Chinese workaday outfit. He kept his tennis shoes, though, figuring that a change of footwear didn’t make sense for a long climb up a mountain. Besides, if anyone got close enough to notice his shoes, they would also notice his round eyes.

A few more minutes of scavenging got him a wide straw hat, which he slanted down over his forehead.

There was still the problem of his modern Western bag. He gave a resigned sigh, then removed his copy of Random and Li Lan’s brochure from the bag and put them in the shirt’s wide hip pocket. He took out his toothbrush, toothpaste, and razor and put them in the other pocket, and shoved Simms’s pistol into the back of his pants at the waist. Then he rolled the bag up tightly and put it under his arm until he could find a safe place to dump it.

He paused at the top of the stairs and listened. The t‘ai chi was still going on, and he could hear the clatter of kettles and plates from the kitchen. He hustled down the stairs and went to find a back exit, then passed through the row of statues and under another arch into a broad courtyard.

To his left, a small pagoda supported a bronze bell about nine feet high and eight feet around. A monk sat by the ladder leading up to the bell, but he didn’t seem to notice Neal. To Neal’s right, a twenty-foot tower rose over the monastery walls. It had fourteen levels, with large characters inscribed on each level. Neal walked through the courtyard and up some steps into a large temple.

The usual saints were there, and a large Buddha, but the central figure was a sixteen-foot-tall bronze statue of a man sitting astride an elephant.

Okay, Neal thought, now we’ll see if Li Lan’s word is any good after all.

“Did you steal those clothes?” he heard her ask.

“Yup.”

She came out from behind one of the statues. She was wearing cotton peasant pants and an old Mao jacket and cap. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she threw her arms around him.

“You are alive,” she whispered.

He hugged her back. It felt great.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “They’ll be coming after us. There’s a traitor in your old man’s operation.”

He felt her body tense.

“You led them here?” she asked.

“They know anyway. Listen to me. One of your father’s people, Peng, is a mole, a traitor. He’s working for the other side. You didn’t tell me your father was working against the government.”

“He is working to become the government.”

“Is he part of this ‘Sichuan Mafia’?”

“I have heard it called that, yes.”

“Pendleton’s on the mountain?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Is there any other way off the mountain? An escape route?”

“It is very dangerous. Over the top and down the western side. Then by foot road to Tibet. It is very long and very dangerous. But the Yi people hate the government. They would lead us. And hide us.”

“Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. You take me to Pendleton. If he wants to stay, fine. He stays and takes his chances. If he wants to leave, your people give us a guide and supplies and we hit the road to Tibet. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Well, half a deal anyway. Peng wasn’t sitting at the table.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. “If Pendleton decides to stay, is he committing suicide? Is there a chance you can make it while Peng knows what’s going on?”

She nodded. “Father is very powerful. Peng will be afraid to move against him without proof. He will need possession of Robert and me, and to connect us with Father.”

“Can he do that?”

She nodded again. “Father is on mountain.”

“Jesus Christ! Why?”

She smiled wanly. “To see Robert, to see me, to see my sister. It was to have been a happy family reunion.”

Maybe it still can be, Neal thought. If two can walk to Tibet, so can five. But none of that can happen unless we can get to the top before we get caught.

“Let’s get going,” he said.

The path led out the back of the monastery on a narrow raised road flanked by fields where a few farmers were at work. Neal and Li came to a bridge over a rapid creek, and Neal tossed his bag into the water.

The path was level and the walking easy as the path ran beside another creek, past ancient, gigantic banyan trees. The countryside was still fairly open, and they could see the rocky crags of Emei’s lower slopes. They came to a village of about a hundred pleasant, thatch-roofed wooden houses amid a grove of tall bamboo. Neal sat at the edge of the path as Lan stopped at one house and came out a minute later with two mantou and two bamboo cups of tea. They sat under the bamboo and ate quickly, then started back up the path, which went across another bridge and then up a steep incline through a thick forest of fir trees.

It emerged into open country between the creek and a high, rocky knoll on which was perched a large monastery. It was midmorning, the sun was out, and Neal felt sweat beginning to break out on his back and then trickle down his spine. Li Lan was setting a healthy pace, and the increasing pitch didn’t seem to bother her. Neal had thought that walking up the stone steps would be easier than struggling up an incline, but the backs of his thighs were already starting to ache and the soles of his feet felt the pounding.