Warren Murphy: High Priestess

"It was a trap!" Remo shouted. "That Chinese guy had a detonator."

"The Bunji!" Lobsang cried, flat on his back. "I do not see the Bunji!"

The cry was taken up by hundreds of anguished voices. Others called out for the Tashi Lama. Then the rain came. It was red, bright red and very warm as it pattered on human skin. It fell from a completely clear sky.

All around, Tibetans scrambled to capture drops of the bright red rain. In later years there would be arguments as to whose life drops had been captured-the Bunji's or the Tashi's.

In the end it did not matter. Both had been erased from the sensual world.

Remo moved among the fallen Tibetans, searching. It was Chiun who found the minister of state security, stunned and still clutching the incriminating detonator.

The man groaned in his confusion. He looked up, his eyes beginning to clear. "I have saved face," he gasped. "Tibet will belong to China forever."

"There is more than one way to lose face," retorted Chiun, and his long-nailed fingers swept down like tiger's claws. Up and down on the man's exposed face they worked. When they came away, the bone mask of his skull lay exposed to the sun amid the red ribbons that had been his lying features.

The minister of state security obviously realized something was amiss. He clapped his hands over his face and found smooth bone instead of flesh. His eyes widened in their white sockets, and his mouth opened to scream.

Remo's hard boot heel drove the unborn scream back into the shattered mask of bone that was now no longer face or skull, but was instead more like a bowl filled with white gravel.

"Better luck next life, pal," Remo said harshly.

"One who would sacrifice a child to reach his evil aims does not deserve a next life," Chiun spat out.

"Okay," said Remo. "Let's get out of here."

No one tried to stop them. The Tibetans were too busy chasing raindrops. But when they reached the turboprop plane, two PLA cadres made the mistake of lifting rifles to shoulders.

Remo and Chiun hit them in concert, driving the rifle butts into their shoulders and breaking both. After that the guards lost interest in everything.

"Can you fly one of these?" Remo asked Kula as he held the door open for Chiun.

"We will find out," said Kula, clambering aboard.

The next minute the pilot came flying out, the top of his skull in one hand and his brain exposed to the light.

Remo had wondered what the popping sound was.

The engines were already running, so it was just a matter of finding seats as Kula engaged the throttles. The turboprop lumbered along, swung around, and the engines roared.

Tibetans scattered before them as the turboprop gained the air and strained toward the nearby mountain ranges.

No one tried to stop them. Not even after they had put Lhasa Valley behind them and were over the endless mountains of Tibet. No jets or helicopters scrambled to challenge them.

When it looked like they were out of the woods, Kula turned from the controls and shouted back, "I will put you all off in India."

"What are you going to do?" Remo asked.

"Lobsang and I must seek out the Bunji."

"What?"

"In the exact moment of her death," Lobsang said hollowly, "the Bunji's spirit entered the body of a child. The child must be found. As the last of the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming, it is my responsibility to seek out the Bunji's new body and guide him to the Lion Throne."

"And I will help because Boldbator Khan has decreed that China will surrender Tibet," added Kula.

"I will help, too," offered Bumba Fun.

"I will not walk with a Khampa," vowed Kula.

"The Bunji will not be found by a mere horse Mongol," Bumba Fun insisted.

"Don't you guys ever give up?" muttered Remo.

"We are Buddhists," said Kula. "We have only to be in the right place at the ordained hour, and glory and merit will shower down upon us."

"Sounds like you all have a full calendar," said Remo. He left them to their planning to rejoin the Master of Sinanju in the rear of the aircraft.

"Smith is going to have a lot to say to you," Remo warned.

"I appoint you official explainer of the House of Sinanju," Chiun said dismissively. "You may tell him what you will."

"But I don't know anything," Remo protested.

"At least you admit your ignorance," Chiun sniffed.

They sat in silence as the endlessness of Tibet rolled under their wings.

"So," Remo asked after a while, "who the hell was Gonpo Jigme?"

Chiun turned his face to the window. "I will tell you after we have escaped Tibet. And not before."

"Why not now?"

"I will tell you that later, as well."

And for the rest of the flight, Remo couldn't get another word out of Chiun. It was very strange.

But not as strange as the landscape below. It looked very familiar. Especially one rounded snowcap they overflew near the Indian border. A long scar ran down its face. Remo couldn't take his eyes off it. It looked most familiar of all.

After it was lost to sight, Remo caught Chiun looking at him strangely. Abruptly the Master of Sinanju looked away.

Chapter 39

Three days later Remo Williams was speaking to Harold W Smith by telephone from his Massachusetts condominium.

"The President has calmed down," Smith was saying.

"You mean the First Lady has calmed down," Remo corrected.

"Whatever, the crisis appears to have blown over. The Chinese had been accusing Washington of having interventionist designs, but once the President pointed out that Squirrelly Chicane perished under suspicious circumstances while being technically a guest of Beijing, their blustering abated."

"So that's it?"

"Pockets of Tibetan agitation have been put down. There have been summary executions. I'm afraid one of those was our contact in Lhasa, Bumba Fun."

"There's plenty more where he came from."

"It is fortunate that this incident did not erupt into open revolt," said Smith.

"Never happen," Remo said. "The Tibetans don't believe in fighting. Until they get a new attitude, they're stuck with the Chinese."

"Did you ever find out why Chiun intervened in Tibet?"

"No, he's being very close-mouthed about it. And he's blaming me for wrecking everything."

"On the contrary," said Smith. "Your timely arrival may have forced the best outcome among the admittedly bad possible scenarios."

"Tell that to Squirrelly Chicane's survivors," Remo said flatly.

"I understand they have been hired as consultants for a new movie based on her rather, ah, colorful life," Smith said dryly.

"I'll wait for the video," said Remo. "Speaking of video, I found that episode of 'The Poopi Silverfish Show' that started all this on tape. It's an old episode. Looks to me like Chiun saw Lobsang coming." Changing the subject, Remo asked, "You find anything on your computers about that name I asked you about?"

"Gonpo Jigme?"

"Who else?"

"Unfortunately, no. It is Tibetan. My data base is curiously deficient in that language."

"Chiun promised me he'd explain what it meant, but so far he's avoiding the subject. What gets me is why Tibet seemed so familiar. I've never been there in my life."

"Deja vu," said Smith.

"Huh?"

"A common delusion. Persons happening upon a new person or place sometimes experience false feelings of recognition. Behavioral scientists have theorized certain smells or scents associated with a person's past trigger the phenomenon. The brain recalls the scent, but the mind believes it is recalling the place."

"Yeah, well, Tibet smelled like nothing I ever encountered before," said Remo glumly.

Down below he heard the door open and close.

"Chiun's back," Remo said quickly. "I gotta run."

Hanging up, Remo ran down the stairs to greet the Master of Sinanju at the door. Chiun carried a paper sack from which the unmistakable odor of fresh fish wafted.