The Assassin Lotus

by David Angsten

  “Professor Baghestani is one of the few archaeologists the Islamic government in Tehran has ever hired—and that was for research into the history of Islam. Even that, they never allowed him to publish!”

  “I want to talk to this professor,” I said. “But tell me something. An Indian woman I met in Rome was killed while trying to track down the lotus. I found a thing in her suitcase that looked an awful lot like this Vajra. It’s in my bag, back in the truck. Like this one, it’s made of bronze, but the spikes at each end are curved inward, forming spheres.”

  Karakov stared at me. “This woman who was killed, what was her name?”

  “Maya Ramanujan.”

  The Russian fell silent. He seemed to be assembling some puzzle in his head.

  “You knew her?” I asked.

  “She came here after the seeds were stolen. She worked for the Indian intelligence service.”

  “Yes! She also had Dan’s sketchbook and his copy of the Rig Veda hymns.”

  “I know,” he said. “Your brother fled in the middle of the night when he found out the Iranians were searching for him. He left his pack in Phoebe’s apartment. Inside we found the books and this Vajra you describe. We turned them over to Miss Ramanujan. She thought they might be helpful in trying to track him down.”

  “I see.” But they obviously hadn’t helped, I thought, or Maya wouldn’t have bothered to seek me out in Rome. Still, given her desperate effort to guide me back to her suitcase, she must have hoped that I might finally make sense of them.

  “Why does Dan’s Vajra look different?” I asked.

  “It is a much later version,” Karakov said. “The Vajra described in the ancient Rig Veda is a notched battle club with a thousand prongs. By the time it passed down through the Vedic religion to the Hindus, and finally, the Buddhists, the weapon fundamentally transformed. Your brother’s Vajra is a ritual instrument used by Tibetan monks. They say the Buddha bent its lethal prongs together into a peaceful sphere, turning Indra’s weapon inward toward the conquest of oneself.”

  Faraj interrupted to say the coffee was ready. Karakov untwisted a thermos, and Faraj filled it with the steaming brew.

  The Russian’s account of the Buddhist Vajra reminded me of the chariot wheel, another creation of the war-making Aryans. According to Dr. Fiore, that wheel, too, became a sacred symbol of Buddhism, now peacefully residing at the heart of the Indian flag.

  I asked Karakov if Dan had talked about the Vajra.

  “Yes, of course. Your brother has a theory. But then he seems to have a theory about everything, does he not?”

  Once again, the ire at losing Phoebe and the seeds. “What can I say? He’s a know-it-all. Very irritating.”

  “He contends the spheres of the Buddhist Vajra represent the buds of the soma lotus. The unopened buds symbolize the un-awakened mind. To blossom, they need light. He believes the soma elixir really is a kind of thunderbolt—a lightning flash that illuminates the void and offers a glimpse of enlightenment.”

  Chemical nirvana? A drug-induced awakening? “I thought Buddhists frowned on the use of intoxicants.”

  “So do the Islamists,” he said.

  “Then his theory doesn’t make any sense.” Nor did it jive with the bellicose bluster I’d read in the Rig Veda text—conqueror of thousands, irresistible in battle, attacking, slaying his foes. These were not the mellow musings of a sage but the rallying cries of a warrior. “Soma must be some sort of stimulant,” I said. “That is, if it’s anything at all.”

  “Yes, if it is anything—” Karakov filled his thermos cup, eyeing the rich black blend—“it may be no more than this.” He offered the thermos to Faraj. “The wine of Islam.”

  Faraj smiled and poured himself a cup. “It’s true—Sufis were the first to brew coffee. Fifteenth century, in the monasteries of Yemen. They used it to keep awake in nighttime devotions. They called it ‘the reviver from the sleep of heedlessness.’” Faraj’s eyelids fell as he delicately sipped, savoring the flavor and aroma. “They say when you imbibe with prayerful intent, the drink becomes a bridge to paradise, a gateway to the hidden mysteries, to the great revelations, to the bliss and power of the Divine Presence.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Monks jacked-up on Arabian Roast—who’d of thunk it?”

  Faraj lowered the cup and grinned. “To be honest, doesn’t do it for me. I drink to stay awake on the road.”

  I laughed and turned to Karakov. “Maybe the Islamists aren’t such teetotalers after all. The Iranians certainly seem to believe the soma legend is true. There’s got to be something to it.”

  Karakov shrugged. “Without access to the living plants, we have no way to find out.”

  “Did you try to sprout your seeds?”

  “Your brother took them before we could. But I’m sure it doesn’t matter. The oldest lotus seed ever germinated was found in a dry lake bed in China. It was some 1200 years old. The plant that grew from it didn’t live long and it failed to reproduce. The soma seeds we found here in the desert are more than 2000 years older than the one found in China. It is extremely unlikely they are viable.”

  “Apparently Dan thought different,” I said. “That’s why he stole your seeds.”

  Karakov bitterly sipped his coffee. “His fear distorts his reason.”

  I wondered if this were true. Dan surely knew more than we did. And after everything I’d just seen, paranoia made perfect sense.

  “She’s awake,” Faraj said.

  We turned to see him crouching at Oriana’s side. He offered her a sip of water, holding the cup to her mouth. She managed to swallow, but it triggered a cough, and half a minute passed before she could speak.

  “We must…leave here,” she uttered.

  “She’s right,” I said. “They’ll be coming for us.” Having not heard back from the two dead assassins, more would be sent out to find them. Vanitar Azad was very likely on his way. His brother and three of his cohorts had been killed; their commander would be in a rage.

  Karakov eyed the ceiling of the tent, now brighter and ruffling lazily. “The storm has passed. The sun is coming up.” I offered him a hand as he struggled up from the stool. “We must report what has happened to the police,” he declared. “But first we need to take her to the hospital in Mari.”

  “No,” Oriana said. “They will look for us there.”

  “We’ve got to get her out of the country,” I said. “I just shot and killed two men. A policeman has been murdered. Neither she nor I have proper visas. We could be held for months here while they try to sort things out. Meanwhile the assassins will track down my brother. I need to get to him first.”

  Faraj rose up. “I’ll drive you to Bukhara. I need to get out of here, too.”

  Karakov gazed down on Oriana, his brow furrowed in thought.

  “Look,” I said. “I don’t want to get you in any more trouble. But please, just give us enough time to get across the border.”

  He continued staring off, as if at some regret.

  “When I find Dan,” I said, “I promise I’ll get back your seeds.”

  “It’s not the seeds I’m worried about.” He raised his gaze to mine.

  “I’ll find her,” I told him. “I swear I’ll do whatever I can to make sure Phoebe’s safe.”

  His wistful eyes peered into mine as if he were reading my heart. “I know you will,” he said.

  I swallowed.

  He glanced between Faraj and me. “The two of you were never here,” he said. “The Iranians were shot by the Taliban.”

  51.

  The Proof

  “O YOU WHO BELIEVE! Do not take the Jews and the Christians for friends; they are friends of each other, and whoever amongst you takes them for a friend, then surely he is one of them; surely Allah does not guide the unjust people.”

  This is the truth from the book of the Prophet.

  The Jews say the Christians do not follow anything good, and the Christians say the Jews do not follow anyth
ing good, while both recite the same book! Both mix truth with falsehood. They light wax candles in their empty stone traps as if to lure God there like a moth. But I have seen a moth with eyes painted on its wings, and butterflies that dazzle and deceive. False faith offers nothing but the comfort of illusion. Islam is the only true guidance.

  Faraj knew the truth, yet he chose to ignore it. He revered the Sufi mystics with their ecstasy and longing—Ghazali gaping endlessly at the face of some young beauty, Rumi losing himself in the gaze of another’s eyes. Faraj called it “the love that obliterates the lovers.” But seeking only God’s love, he brushed aside His law. And so he was disgraced in this world and will suffer a painful chastisement in the next.

  My former friend had thought his lies would sow the seeds of doubt, hoped his gazing eyes would lure me in. But I defied the doubters. Reaffirmed my faith. No twisting of the truth left me uncertain.

  The truth is Allah’s alone, and the Mahdi will bring it forth: that is all I needed to remember. It was the reason why I joined the Old Man’s secret war. To see his grand vision carried out into the world, to fan the flames of chaos throughout the Middle East, to draw the outer world into the great apocalypse that will bring about the coming of the Mahdi.

  The Mahdi—the Shadow of God, the Master of Time, the Proof. Indisputable proof for all who doubt: the return of Islam’s Messiah!

  BUKHARA

  52.

  Seven Good Reasons

  THE UZBEK GUARDS at the border crossing couldn’t fathom the combination: an Iranian, an American, and between the two, a Jew. They poured over our passports like Koranic scholars analyzing the books of the Hadith. Faraj explained that Oriana and I were vacationing together, attempting to retrace the old Silk Road route across the Stans into China. He was traveling to Bukhara on business and had picked us up on the way. His passport showed he had made the journey many times before; it looked to be fairly routine.

  Still, the guards remained suspicious. We were entering yet another country invented by the Soviets, who seemed to have thoroughly inculcated their obsession with control. After ordering us out of the truck and searching Faraj and me, they turned their sights on Oriana. She wore a head scarf that Phoebe had left behind in the field tent, a NY Yankee’s sweatshirt she had borrowed from Faraj, and a pair of jeans from my duffel bag. The jeans had been loosely rolled up into cuffs, revealing the infamous red-leather heels recovered from her desert death march. Although the borrowed clothes concealed her many bandaged wounds, she found it too painful to stand upright, and her face looked pale and sickly. Fearing a body search, I told them she’d contracted some rabid flu virus and might vomit profusely at any moment.

  The men left her alone.

  Faraj had buried his guns safely in the desert, so their search of the truck revealed nothing. But they did turn up an item from my bag.

  “Problyema.”

  “That? It’s nothing. They call it a Vajra. From Tibet.”

  “Antikvarnaya.”

  “Antique? Not really. It’s a Buddhist thing. Spiritual. Like a thunderbolt, but harmless. Look. See how the prongs are—”

  “No papers.”

  “I told you. It’s nothing—”

  Faraj interrupted with a carton of caviar. “Enough for everyone!” He ripped the box open and began passing out the tins.

  Suddenly the guards were breaking into smiles. “Nyet problyema. Let them pass.”

  I helped Oriana climb back into the truck. Faraj winked at me as the men waved us through. We had entered into the Stan of the Uzbeks.

  DESPITE MANY HOURS OF SLEEP on the road, Oriana had weakened considerably. We had stopped only once in the middle of the desert to change the dressing on her wound, and the discoloration of the flesh around it suggested some kind of infection. As we entered the outskirts of Bukhara, Faraj headed directly for the hospital.

  Oriana objected. She insisted I be taken to the university first and begin at once my tracking down of Dan. “You must find him before they do,” she muttered. “Or all is…for nothing.”

  I knew she was referring to Sar. But I was afraid we’d lose her, too. “We’ve got to take care of you first,” I said.

  “No. Too much time.”

  Faraj shot a glance at me while navigating the traffic. “I can take her,” he said. “It’s not far from the university.”

  He looked bleary-eyed, hell-bent. He’d been driving nearly nonstop since we left the site at dawn. On a journey he’d never planned to make. With an American who’d just shot two men, and a woman he barely knew.

  “Faraj?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  He glanced at me as if annoyed by the question, and went back to battling the traffic. “How many assassins are left?”

  I had to think. “The day before yesterday, there were ten. Oriana killed one in Baku. We just killed two more in the desert.”

  “That leaves seven,” he said. “Seven coming for you and your brother. And for Oriana.”

  I swallowed. “That gives you seven good reasons to get out of here while you can.”

  “No,” he said. “That gives me seven good reasons to stay.”

  THEY DROPPED ME AT A CORNER of the campus. It lay sprawled among several blocks near the edge of the Old City, the labyrinthine heart of Bukhara. I wandered over the grounds for several minutes before realizing I had no clue where to go. Although the signs and building plaques were written in Latin script, they were all in largely indecipherable Uzbek.

  Students shrugged in response to my queries, but a few spoke English and pointed out the way. Eventually I found myself in a courtyard. Along one wall, beneath a series of domed arches, students were lounging on wooden divans, sipping hot drinks and smoking narghile at what must have been the campus teahouse. One of the students directed me to the archaeology department in a gray stone building across the courtyard.

  I passed through the old building’s entry door and started down a long, dusky, hallway. The clack of my boot heels echoed. Every office door was closed, and their indecipherable labels gave the corridor a Kafkaesque strangeness. I knocked on a door and tried the knob. It was locked.

  The next was locked, too. And the next.

  Hearing footsteps, I turned to see a man at the far end of the hall making his way toward an exit.

  “Hello!” I shouted, hurrying toward him.

  He slowed as I approached. At least a foot shorter than me, and considerably wider, he peered up from a broad, dark-skinned face with the faded garnet smudge of a tilak on his forehead.

  “I’m looking for Professor Baghestani,” I said.

  The man grinned and nodded, gesturing behind him toward a door at the end of the hall. I thanked him, and he ambled off, disappearing out the exit in a blinding burst of light.

  I walked down the hallway and knocked on the door. To my surprise, it creaked open. “Hello?”

  No answer. I pushed the door aside and ventured in.

  53.

  Borzoo Baghestani

  THROUGH THE BREAK BETWEEN THE DRAPES of a soaring window, a swath of sunlight sliced across a large and cluttered room. For a moment I thought I was back in Steinberg’s shop. Books lay everywhere, crammed into the shelves that lined the high walls, piled in precarious towers on the carpets, and splayed like fallen, upturned doves on the massive antique desk.

  There was no one in the room. The desk looked as if the professor had momentarily stepped away. A filigreed glass held the dregs of an espresso, and a fountain pen lay uncapped on a pile of scribbled notes.

  A fountain pen—no computer. Positively medieval, I thought.

  I looked around. The sliver of sunlight arced across a blue and amber globe, mounted on a stand beneath the window. On the wall beside it hung an antique map of Central Asia, and on the other side, the framed print of a 19th-century Orientalist painting, a Mongol warrior lording it over a captured, prostrate sultan. On the shelves I spotted a squat stone Buddha
propping up a copy of the Koran, while two shelves higher stood the knuckled leather spine of an ancient King James Bible. Stepping back, I kicked over a slippery stack of manga, the comic books I had devoured while living in Japan.

  This Borzoo Baghestani was an interesting fellow.

  Across the room, nestled between two sea-green leather chairs, a carved-jade chess set darkly gleamed. Its peculiarity drew me closer. The chessboard, I realized, held extra rows and columns, with a single space jutting out like a thumb on either side. Many of the pieces struck me with their strangeness—elephants, giraffes, camels, princes. It was some exotic form of desert chess I’d never seen before.

  A collection of framed photographs checkered the teal-colored wall above it. Stone ruins, dig sites, and workmen holding picks and shovels, posing with their finds. The same man appeared in nearly all of the shots: tall, dark-skinned, handsome, with aquiline features and vivid, intelligent eyes. I took him to be Baghestani. There were no photos of any women or children, so it appeared he was probably a bachelor. In one shot he stood beside a tweedy, pale, balding man with a handlebar moustache. I recognized the monument looming up behind them from pictures I’d seen of Tehran: the “Freedom Tower” they called it, though I’m sure Faraj would have—

  A rap on the door flung me around.

  A woman stood there, looking surprised, her arm around an empty cardboard box, a ring of keys in her hand. She said something to me in Uzbek.

  “Do you speak English?” I asked.

  “No English.” She wore a babushka and the uniform of a maid.

  “I’m looking for the Professor,” I said. “Borzoo Baghestani?”

  “Baghestani?” Again she spoke rapidly in Uzbek. Another uniformed woman came in, rolling a Stalin-era vacuum cleaner. She was taken aback when she spotted me. The two women conversed at breakneck speed while examining the lock on the door, upset, apparently, that the office had been opened, or had never been locked, or perhaps had been broken into—