by L. A. Banks
Oh, yes, this was the Roof of the World, and like many sights before, she was glad that Carlos’s impromptu detour had led her to witness it. She squeezed his hand and murmured a quiet thank-you. He didn’t hear her, but squeezed her hand back, seeming spellbound.
The collective sigh of relief was released by the team in loud, ornery puffs of breath, as Guardians folded their arms, made signs of the cross over their chests, and generally balked at having their nerves rattled this close to touchdown. But Damali didn’t say a word as she watched the hair stand up on Carlos’s arms. She’d felt the divine, too. The team simply needed to chill.
As soon as he saw the mountains, a link chain on his memory had opened. Initially, it revealed only one sketchy portion of a message; the Himalayas. Slowly, bit by bit, snatches of knowing returned to take up residence in his soul. The angels knew that the Chairman would be here. It all made so much sense, especially with the weaponry that had been given to them. Armies around the world knew that something worse than they’d ever encountered was here—somewhere; humankind was gearing up for war.
The imperative was clear, bring them the head. Not a problem, on his list of things to do before he died, just like turning Lilith to pure ash was on his must-see itinerary. But there was something else … something important, something profound teasing the edges of his mind as he stared out the window and held fast to Damali’s hand. When they were alone, he’d talk to her and maybe she could coax it out of his brain.
It took a bit of finesse, but they were finally able to convince the officers to call their general and then to stay on the plane. The team took only what they needed immediately. Goggles and bracelets that could be easily stashed in the long duffels went with them. Small firearms, grenades, tracking devices, silver stakes, the sword like Marlene’s walking stick, anything that could fit into a suitcase or be carried openly without causing alarm also got dragged along. The only thing they did lean on heavily was their newly acquired VIP status, and they left the drama of having to check out on the ground and pass clearances and metal detectors to average civilians.
A large minivan was waiting to collect them, and the team gladly climbed into it, happy, once again, to be on solid ground. But the altitude weighed on their chests like anvils, and Monk Lin advised nonalcoholic drinks, plenty of water, and a moderate pace.
“Once we check into the apartments that have been made available to you near the Barkhor, we will have lunch at this plaza, and you can orient yourselves to the only place in Tibet not currently overrun by Chinese immigrants. The Barkhor is the intermediary circumambulation around the Jokhang—it is the heart of Lhasa. Here we will fetch trekking supplies and mountain-climbing gear, then drop our supplies off in the nearby apartments, and return to tour Jokhang.” He smiled as he stood and faced the team. “Everything here is done with patience and your bodies must adjust to the new environment before we go deeper into the mountains.”
There was no argument as they watched the collision of cultures pass them by through the smudged minivan windows while it bumped along the road from the airport to the center of Lhasa. She wasn’t sure what she expected to see, but this rural land still had everything from what appeared to be smugglers to street vendors, brothels to monasteries. All were competing for existence in a city that had glittering chrome high-rise modernity on one corner, and, on the next, small, hand-built stone structures with inward leaning walls and pagoda-style rooves with dragons and prayer flags whipping in the wind.
Yak-drawn wagons begrudgingly moved aside for diesel-smoking vehicles. Small donkeys swatted their tails, annoyed at young boys and old men that whacked their behinds with sticks to make them continue walking. Women wore thick, multistriped shawls and colorful woolen skirts beneath long-haired sheep shearling jackets with yak-hair hats jauntily cocked on their heads. They also wore their long black braids covered in bright strands of wool string, adding carved bone, animal horn, amber, and coral ornaments into their intricate hair designs. The men had on wildly varying combinations of thick hide jackets and thick woolen pants, to U.S.-inspired jeans with yak caps turned around backward, reminiscent of the Kangols from ’round the way done Tibetan style. They even sported gold teeth and had felt derby hats. Some dressed to the nines in elaborate, brocade chupa robes and billowing tucked pantaloon silks, edged in tiger and snow-leopard hides.
Turquoise and silver were everywhere and glinted off reddened cheeks. The city was a veritable rabbit warren of streets in a maze that could make one dizzy, altitude notwithstanding. Whitewashed brick and gold-painted rooves glinted under the sun next to shell-destroyed buildings, and those simply fallen into disrepair. Streets that seemed to go straight up in the sky rivaled San Francisco’s Lombard Street, and the steps up made one wonder as elderly people casually walked uphill without stopping to catch a breath.
“The people,” Damali whispered, placing her hand on the window. “They look Navajo, or like …”
“Any U.S. tribe I’ve ever seen,” Jose said, gaping from the window. “The cloths are so similar, like that lady’s blanket,” he murmured, trying not to point.
“I see Mexico City,” Carlos said, his tone quiet and reverent. “Guatemala, Peru …”
“This is why we go to the Barkhor, first,” Monk Lin said, pleasure threading through his voice. “You had to see and be reminded how the fabric of the world is one.”
By the time they’d quickly unloaded and returned to the Barkhor, the entire team was moving slowly. Aches and pains from oxygen-deprived cells made them wince as though they had arthritis.
“The people here have more red blood cells than you and have evolved, physically, to cope with the elements,” Monk Lin said as he led them into the teeming, open-air mall.
Carlos slowed to let the others pass them and placed his hand on Damali’s shoulder. “That’s why this is good feeding ground,” he said quietly in her ear. “It’s isolated. Communications are slim, despite the towers sending news and music into the streets. Cell phones are relatively new, and I bet in the winter, even satellite transmissions are shaky. This place is perfect if you needed to hide, eat well, and heal.”
She reached up and touched his face with the tips of her fingers, feeling his warmth seep into them as she only nodded and kept walking. Something beyond the altitude was making her chest tight. The fragrances from the square slammed against her senses: incense and raw meat for sale, pungent spices. Sounds and colors clattered against each other: monks sitting on the ground saying mantras before alms bowls; crimson robes creating neon signs. Blue mountains turned brass by the sun, brushed in gold dust near the dragon-covered rooftops, where the wind whipped prayer flags into flickers of color.
Concealed but noticeable government eyes were everywhere. Controlled mayhem was in full effect. Pilgrims waited in long lines to get into the Jokhang Temple. Some worshipers simply laid flat on the ground, performing devotion prostration. Images of their apartments swirled in her mind—stairs, small, narrow halls within white-painted stone, old monastic quarters … Damali jerked her head up before she nearly passed out. Damn, Carlos smelled so good.
“This is why we stop and have momo, steamed dumplings filled with vegetables, then-thuk, noodles; dresi, sweet rice; soja, butter tea, and chu, cheesecake, before we press on,” Monk Lin said, catching Damali’s elbow.
It seemed as though, no matter how crowded the establishments, everywhere they went, all Monk Lin had to do was go into the back, speak quietly with the owners, and accommodations were quickly made. Today, that was a very good thing, because her entire team looked ill—well, everyone did except Carlos. His senses seemed to be on full alert, his gaze roving, and his color good, whereas everyone else was soaked with perspiration from the minor exertion, looked gray and washed out, and their senses were anything but keen.
Yet, as they listened to Monk Lin describe the balance of the day’s itinerary, the warmth that Carlos’s body exuded next to hers was distracting to the point of the ridiculous. Ev
eryone was laboring to breathe; she was laboring not to. Every now and then a whiff of his chemistry made her stomach do flip-flops, which ignited a very untimely inner burn.
“As with all things, timing is everything,” Monk Lin said.
Damali almost dropped her tea as she picked up on the last strands of his conversation.
“Buddha’s Enlightenment Day is celebrated here, at this time of year, and we believe your timing in Tibet is auspicious for success.”
Damali smiled weakly and set down her cup of tea. Close call. She had to return her focus to the mission. The high altitude was obviously causing her brain cells to freeze.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A crush of humanity made up of pilgrims and tourists created a cacophony of voices in different dialects as the team waited to enter the Jokhang Temple. This was the only place where they’d been denied preferential status, as the monks who kept the lines orderly seemed to feel that waiting was part of the enlightenment process. But as they waited, the team shared the same concern; in a place like this, and how many others in the world, how did one not touch another living soul? The spread of contagion by touch was imminent. Fighting it on an individual basis was futile. They had to get to the root source, not go about some insane, government-inspired extermination and quarantine strategy. They needed the antidote. The portals had to be sealed.
During the wait to access the most illustrious temple in the region, the open air allowed the team to recover partially and digest their leisurely consumed meal. Perhaps there was some wisdom in the monks’ approach. Damali looked down at the polished stones beneath her boots, awed that millions of feet and prostrated bodies performing the sacred act of chak devotion—flattening one’s entire body on the earth one-hundred and eight times as a rosary bead was pushed and a mantra spoken—had made the stones gleam. There was something to be said for the crush of humanity and the fierceness of spiritual devotion. That, too, was not to be discounted here.
Spirit of the divine most assuredly presided in this sacred place. How anyone could be bold enough to shell this temple and to fill it with desecration would be akin to razing the Vatican. Real bad karma. Enough, also, to make the angels weep. Just thinking about such unholy abuse made her shudder as they neared the courtyard entrance flanked by two willow trees and also hosting a third one that was planted and still living from the time the temple had been built. Another trinity. Trees, perhaps representing what had been in the original Garden. As they passed, she assessed all this like a detective.
Damali looked at the stump planted by Queen Wengcheng that had taken a mortar shell but survived. It told her much about the spirit of the people that still lived here. Tough, but also very beautiful. She clung to that for hope.
Awed as they entered the six-columned portico, it suddenly dawned on her that a woman built this. Yes, a woman knew where to construct this palace. A woman had hooked it up spiritually, architecturally, and the first wife had paid for all this—back in a time when women were treated like less than dirt. Oh, yeah, girlfriend had to be onto Lilith’s shenanigans, and men had respected that. Hmmm … Okay, dual energy was in full effect, male and female cooperation. Damali took note.
As more awareness came to her, Damali put both hands on her hips and smiled. “Bet a lot of Egypt has some untold designers and architects, too,” she whispered, receiving a knowing smile from Marlene. Now she could move forward. A huge part of the worry about where she and Marlene had ultimately decided to locate the team vanished. It was in their DNA, the ability to home to a safe spot to put down roots, no matter how temporary.
“It is in the Aya,” Monk Lin murmured, coming near her. “In the bones, we say.”
The construction also gave Damali ideas as they walked through the main gate, the Zhung-go, a structure outfitted with a finely carved door and murals of the future Buddha on the left and the past Buddha on the right; soon she became very aware that this part of the stop was primarily for her benefit. Wrathful deities painted in bright hues to protect the hallowed Entrance Hall looked at them with unmoving, fierce eyes. She could tell that the male members of the team were interested, but looking around somewhat detached, while the females in her group were rapt. Jokhang’s series of walled spaces were set up like a giant maze.
Guides pointed out that the Inner Jokhang had three stories forming a great square around a huge hall known as Kyilkhor Thil. The inner roundabout was called the Nangkhor, which was to be walked clockwise for enlightenment as prayer wheels were spun. But the Outer Jokhang, referred to as the western extension, housed lesser chapels, kitchens, storerooms, and residences. Detailed murals covered every wall, and on the northern side was once one of the residences of the Dalai Lamas.
Okay, she got it. The new compound design was locked into her brain and Monk Lin smiled briefly, bowed, and ushered them through the balance of the tour with haste. She’d never seen him brimming with such excitement, and it was as though he’d also shared her discovery.
“Monk Lin, we’ve come a very long way to get a floor plan,” Damali said, teasing him in a discreet whisper.
“It is also a battle tactic, what you keep within layers of flanking—circles within circles. It is a map.”
The two nodded as they scanned the team. Carlos remained unusually quiet.
“This didn’t do it for him,” Damali whispered.
Monk Lin only nodded. “Perhaps the Potala will.”
“What we need isn’t here,” she said, quietly disappointed. “But this is the greatest temple of them all.”
“I am aware that what we seek on the surface is not here, but this may not be the greatest temple,” Monk Lin said slyly. “Ask the Naksong.”
He was exhausted and tired of sightseeing. He wanted to get the show on the road. This was not why he came here, not part of the mission. He hated all this vibration drama—why couldn’t Monk Lin just point him in the right direction, tell him straight no-chaser where the battle was to kick off, and then they could develop a strategy. Carlos shoved his hands into his pockets and followed Damali and Monk Lin. This was ridiculous.
Another long, slow ride across town set his teeth on edge. Every male on the team had the same reaction. They were all beyond words and kept their gazes out the minivan window, surveying rooftops, alleys, looking at where a predator could exit after dark, and plotting escape routes.
What the females on the team obviously saw as rich history, great places to hunt for bargains and culture, they saw as ambush territory and danger. When was Damali just going to accept that men and women saw the world from two very distinct points of view?
But as they pulled up to the impressive thirteen-story, massive structure bearing what seemed to be a thousand steps built into the side of a mountain, even he was forced to nod with sudden appreciation.
Rising out of the mountainside was a monolithic building of red brick that towered over a lower section of white expansion as though the red encircled the white. Oh, yeah, now a structure like this made sense. Steeply sloping stone stairs gave access to or escape to the layer upon layer of building levels. This was a cliff-side fortress, what he’d been trying to tell D.
“One thousand rooms,” Monk Lin said. “The White Palace was the seat of the government and the winter residence of the Dalai Lama. The Red Palace was the spiritual center, which houses many smaller chapels … often only a human skull or thighbone remains present. Thousands of butter lamps were lit here. This is where we will also find the golden chorten, eight in all, containing the ashes of past Dalai Lamas V, and then VII–XIII.”
“Wait,” Carlos said as the exited the van into Zhol Square. “You have the ashes for the fifth Dalai Lama, plus Lamas seven through thirteen—but what happened to the guy who was number six?”
Monk Lin simply smiled and waved the group forward, his red robes billowing in the wind as they crossed the massive, white stone square that led to a jewel green field of grass that again broke to accommodate what seemed to be a thousand
hand-laid stones a city block long in radius. “Between the Red and White Palaces, valuable thangkas, huge murals on fabric, were kept in the yellow Thangkas Room—a building off on its own, but containing majesty.”
Okay, so the monk was back to riddles and didn’t answer him.
“Yes I have,” Monk Lin said with a twinkle in his eyes. “You just didn’t hear me.”
Groans of discontent filtered through their slow-moving team as they climbed the steps. Berkfield was complaining of chest pain. Rider was fussing about not being able to breathe. Mike seemed like he was about to pass out from the exertion. Shabazz was sweating so hard that everything he wore was wet. Bobby had bent over to puke, but simply dry-heaved. Dan and J.L. had stopped with Jose to assist Marjorie, Juanita, and Inez, but wound up getting helped up the steps instead. Marlene stopped every few feet and leaned on her stick. Damali kept her eyes forward like an eagle with something in her sight line.
Yeah, he felt it, too. Something was here. Carlos glanced at Monk Lin and Damali every so often as they passed exquisite red lacquered doors and entered a world that seemed like it went back in time.
Lush gardens manicured to perfection to appear naturally occurring but beyond naturally neat separated buildings within buildings. Red was everywhere, and the color tugged at his distant memory … the color offered power, was erotic … blood. Gold dust, gold leaf, thrones … thrones … What was the deal with thrones? Dragons and thrones; doors, three times the height of a man; golden knockers with dragonheads.
