by Talbot Mundy
“Write your permit for me to travel where I please in Tibet.”
Lobsang Pun looked startled, as if by an idea. Oriental diplomat, he temporized, to gain time to think:
“Tum-Glain, who am I that I should write that?”
Tom retorted bluntly: “I didn’t ask who you are. I know. I am saying: write that permit or take the consequences. I will use it and take the consequences.”
“Tum-Glain—”
“Do you want to be arrested by the British authorities on the charge that your agent, bearing your instructions, over your signature, threw shang-shangs into a monastery chapel and then carried off Thö-pa-ga and Miss Elsa Burbage?”
The arbitrary absolutist Lobsang Pun made no attempt to appear indifferent. He was visibly shocked:
“Tum-Glain, that is untrue!”
“Prove it! That Bön magician showed the monk at the gate a document with your signature. Probably that same document passed him across the border into British territory with his baggage unexamined. He used it to get admission to this monastery. Forgery perhaps, but prove it!”
“Tum-Glain, I am on my way to Tibet. I will swiftly overtake and punish.”
“Overtake? You?” Tom’s fist thumped the table. “I want five or six of your best men. Ten horses. Provisions. That permit. After that, if you can overtake me you’re a wizard! Here’s the table. Pen. Ink. Paper. Sand. A chair. Sit down and write!”
“But Tum-Glain, they can not have gone far — not yet. My seven monks—”
Tom snorted: “Oh, yes, Mauser pistols. Pursuit. A fight on British territory! Dacoity! Sikkim military police! Your Eminence, if the police, here in Darjeeling, get a hint of what has happened, every road will be blocked by telephone within half an hour. Then what? Do you wish to stay here and face an enquiry?”
“You shall not go to the police!” said Lobsang Pun. His eyes blazed indignation.
Tom laughed. “Very well then, write that permit, and the order for horses, provisions and five men.”
“Tell your thinking, Tum-Glain.”
“I will tell you your own thoughts!” Tom answered. “That Bön magician, who carries a forged authority from you — or isn’t it forged? — was wearing a Japanese dagger in his girdle. You came to India to get the British to support the Tashi Lama. Don’t say you didn’t. I know you did. You’d been intriguing with the Japanese, but they wanted too much in return for their help, so you turned pro-British without warning the Japs. But the British weren’t any too enthusiastic. They didn’t want you in Delhi — you and your Tibetan intrigues, so you were diplomatically hung up. You only heard of Thö-pa-ga’s return from England after he reached Delhi. Eiji Sarao told you about it. You hadn’t expected Thö-pa-ga so soon. You weren’t quite ready. But the opposition was.”
“Your not understanding what you’re talking, Tum-Glain.”
“Oh, no? Listen to this, then. The Japanese saw through your turn-about-face, so they lined up promptly with the Lhasa gang who murdered the Dalai Lama. That Bön magician belongs to the Lhasa outfit. They, you, Russia and Japan all want control of the Thunder Dragon Gate. You want it for His Holiness the Tashi Lama’s benefit, and for him only, in order to make him the ruler of Tibet. They want it in order to keep the Tashi Lama out of Tibet. Russia wants it to use against Japan. The Japanese want it for propaganda purposes, to further their aims in China and Inner Mongolia. Now then: if the Lhasa politicians get the Thunder Dragon Gate, and if the Japanese control them, what chance has the Tashi Lama?”
Silence. Lobsang Pun’s expression was a mixture of out raged dignity, suspicion, embarrassment, alertness and lurking humor. The humor was in ambush, behind cunning eyes. But he liked Tom. He couldn’t disguise that he liked him. A brow-beater himself, he respected a man who stood up to him and dared to bully him with questions that carried no question-mark. Tom kept hard at him:
“You know well you’d be discredited forever if there’s a police investigation.”
“No police, Tum-Glain.”
“Very well then, listen. Suppose they kill Thö-pa-ga. Suppose he dies on the journey. How would that suit you? Would they admit he’s dead? Not likely! He’d be out of the way. They’d bury him, or throw his body to the dogs, and put another in his place — they’d pick a devil — and they’d say he was the real man just returned from abroad. The very first thing that their devil would do would be to denounce the Tashi Lama from the Thunder Dragon Gate. After that, he’d begin prophesying that the long-awaited, all-redeeming Maitreya, who is to unite Asia under one benign government, is the Emperor of Japan! Am I right?”
No answer.
“What will they do to Elsa Burbage, if Thö-pa-ga dies on the journey? Do you want the credit for that — you and your Bön magician, who, you say forged your name to a document!”
A plea at last. Not guilty! Accomplished diplomatic liar Lobsang Pun might be, but his eyes told the truth. Black, oriental, malicious, reserved, fierce, intelligent eyes, they were. But they weren’t lying now. Whatever his intentions might have been, concerning Elsa, he hadn’t been a party of her abduction. He perceived its implications.
“Tum-Glain, they didn’t—”
“They did. They have carried her off to keep Thö-pa-ga from dying of terror and depression. That dog Noropa suggested it to them. If Thö-pa-ga dies, they’ll kill her. Then what?”
Lobsang Pun displayed a philosophic doubt on that score.
“Tum-Glain, now your talking foolishness. Why their killing a young woman? Nancy Strong, true, not stolen, but having lived long in Tibet, not dead yet.”
“Uh-huh? Write that permit!”
“She being your woman?”
“You’ve sixty seconds to take that pen in your hand.”
The diplomat’s canniness came to the surface:
“Tum-Glain, your not wanting police, eh? Why not?”
“Very well, I’ll tell you. More than two years ago, when you turned me out of Tibet, I was hunting for the Thunder Dragon Gate. I am hunting for it now, and so is Elsa Burbage. Stop either of us — stop us if you dare! Time’s up. Write. Here you are.” He dragged the heavy chair to the table. “Sit down. Write.”
Lobsang Pun sat and took the pen in hand, but he still hesitated:
“Tum-Glain, no good. My representing Blessed Holiness Panchen Rinpoche, Tashi Lama. His being exiled beyond border of Tibet—”
“Don’t I know that? Do you think I’ll show your permit to the soldiers or officials from Lhasa? Sign your name as representative plenipotentiary, and set your seal to it. There isn’t a tax-ridden layman in all Tibet, nor a decent monk, who doesn’t love His Holiness the Tashi Lama and want him home again at Tashi-lunpo. Write it. I’ll take the consequences.”
Lobsang Pun demurred. “Tum-Glain, my writing evidence, my aiding your entering Tibet, contrary to law? Signing my sentence of death!”
“I’m American. There is no law against my entering Tibet. Against all other foreigners, yes. An American, no.”
“They not understanding that.”
“Does Your Eminence understand that every minute is of consequence? I’ll take care your enemies don’t get hold of the permit to use against you. Rather than that, I’ll eat it.”
Lobsang Pun wrote. But he paused again before he signed.
“Tum-Glain, your never returning alive!”
“No? You went in, didn’t you? Here you are. Are you dead?”
“Tum-Glain, my not going in there. Never. More than two years, many years ago, not daring, staying outside.”
“You sent Noropa in.”
“No. His not going in, also.”
“Too bad. Well, Your Eminence, signature please. Now the seal. Thank you.”
Tom sanded the document and stowed it away in an inner pocket. Then he opened the door.
By word of mouth, to one of his seven attendant monks, Lobsang Pun gave the order for horses, provisions and five men.
CHAPTER 25. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
All seven monks looked stonily indignant. Lobsang Pun had commanded nothing of the sort. But he didn’t deny it. Tom unbuckled a Mauser, belt and all, from the waist of the monk who had been told to see about horses, provisions and men. He strapped it on under his own shirt. Lobsang Pun roared:
“Oo-ha-ha-ha-hah! Tum-Glain!”
Then he did an astonishing thing. He ordered all the other monks to unload their pistols and to give Tom the ammunition.
“Your going quick, you, Tum-Glain, better not letting my catching you! Oo-ha-ha-hah!”
Unexpectedly he offered to shake hands. He wouldn’t let go. He belly-roared his blessings until Tom almost tore himself loose. The monks couldn’t get out of his way fast enough.
He ran up the gallery steps, fetched his bag from the guest cell and demanded to see Mu-ni Gam-po. If the Abbot really was dying of shock, it might be possible to invent a new line of communication even on the spur of that moment. But the monks told him to wait. They were not in the least impressed by his impatience. Fuming at delay, he watched the monks in the courtyard shoveling the fire, burying the shang-shangs’ ashes beneath a huge cone of glowing crimson embers. They were taking no chances on the brutes returning to life!
But there was something else going on. Twice, two messengers ran past him along the gallery, going and coming. They crossed the fire-lit courtyard and vanished in the direction of the main gate. A monk came and said the Abbot would see Tom presently, but he must wait a little longer.
Ten more minutes passed, and then came Abdul Mirza up the stairs, all alone, wrapped head and shoulders in a shawl. Tom didn’t recognize him until they were face to face.
“You?”
“You?”
“Do you know what has happened here?” Tom asked.
“I know nothing. I am looking for Noropa.”
“You won’t find him. How did you get by the main gate?”
“Oh, I made a noise like a prayer wheel. What are you doing here with your bag in your hand?”
“Waiting for word with the Abbot. What had you to do with Dowlah sending Noropa to stab me with a poisoned dagger? Noropa traveled with your party.”
“Yes, Noropa begged to be allowed to travel under my protection. He said he was coming here to beg facilities to return to Tibet.”
“What is Dowlah doing?”
Abdul Mirza made a wry face. “He has vanished. Are you on your way to Tibet? Can I help you with equipment?”
“Thanks, I guess that’s all attended to.”
“Have you money?”
“Yes. Indian rupees.”
“Then why wait? It is my private opinion, Mr. Grayne, that Rajah Dowlah also is on his way to Tibet. I have no proof, but I believe he knows where the Thunder Dragon Gate is. I am not in his confidence. I never have been. It has always been a game between him and me, as to which could outwit the other. It was my duty to prevent him from making serious mistakes, but he has made at least one too many. Your arrival on the scene, I think, precipitated crowning indiscretion. He was always ambitious, always jealous. Even as a boy he was possessed by irrepressible curiosity. Contempt for other people’s intelligence is his worst fault. I believe his plans have been secretly laid for a long time. He believes the Thunder Dragon Gate will give him fame and power. He, and twenty men, have vanished.”
Tom saw what looked like light on the situation.
“Listen,” he said, “a Bön magician, devil-dancers and some others, less than an hour ago, raised hell here with a couple of shang-shangs at the midnight service. They have carried off Thö-pa-ga and Elsa Burbage. D’you think Dowlah had a hand in that?”
Abdul Mirza stared into Tom’s eyes. His own were far-sighted from advancing age, and he couldn’t get out his pince-nez quickly from under the shawl.
“You say they carried them off? And you wait here? No, I don’t think Dowlah had a hand in that. He can’t have, or I think not. How could he? He will take advantage of it, if he learns it has happened. He is very partial to European women. Intelligent ones. Young ones. Good looking. Unconventional. Have you warned the police?”
“Of course I haven’t.”
“There are very efficient police in Sikkim,” said Abdul Mirza.
“Yes, a damned sight too efficient. At a word they’d be under way in less than fifteen minutes.”
“Are you afraid the abductors would murder Miss Burbage, if pursued by the police? I think that unlikely.”
“That isn’t the point,” Tom answered. “You should know that.”
“My young friend, then what is the point?”
“If a Bön magician and his party can cross the passes at this time of year, and reach the Thunder Dragon Gate, I can follow. If they can get in, I can.”
“And Miss Elsa Burbage? Mr. Grayne, the police — I am afraid. If it should be said I knew, but that I did nothing, did not tell the police—”
“All right, you don’t know. You haven’t spoken to me. You haven’t seen me. Can’t wait any longer on the Abbot. Good-by.”
Tom went hurrying to the stables. The monk stood swinging a lantern. There were several men in line — some packed loads — two tents — a string of ten shaggy Tibetan ponies. He could see at a glance that one pony was lame; the other nine were probably not much better, and the men worse — malingerers, thieves, weaklings. The monk, no doubt, was out for vengeance for the requisitioned Mauser pistol.
Tom examined the loads first, rejected one tent as unnecessary and demanded another load of tea, sugar and canned milk. Then an extra load of cheese, and another of ground barley. He rejected a bale of rotten dried apricots. They stank. He found another bale of them that didn’t stink. He demanded more blankets. By a high-handed display of impatience and money he bought, at an outrageous price from a sleepy Tibetan, a sheepskin coat and hat. They reeked of ghee and yak-dung smoke, but they were in good condition. Then he went into the stable and requisitioned the ten ponies that were haltered in a line in the dark at the farther end.
That started a fine rebellion. The monk went nearly frantic. Those were the special personal ponies reserved for the use of the Holy and Reverend Lobsang Pun!
“Yes,” said Tom. “I guessed that.”
He didn’t actually have to fight, but he did have to go in and lead out the ponies. Such a row was raised about them that he found out who the best men were, because the monk appealed to them and ignored the others. So Tom picked five of those. He promised each of them a bonus of fifty rupees, over and above regular pay.
“Bhod! Tibet! Now!”
So be the trail lay northward, men and beasts were willing. Saddling up took next to no time. Such delay as there was, saved valuable minutes. Abdul Mirza caused it. He came, wrapped in his shawl, like a prowling Haroun al Raschid of Baghdad. He had an order to open the main gate, which Tom did not have. True, he might have managed with Lobsang Pun’s seal and signature, but Abdul Mirza’s signed pass from the Abbot was better.
“Tom Grayne, I have salved my conscience, such as it is. You appear to have none, so may peace ride with you. We have been too stupid, some of us statesmen. Others have been too clever for their own good. Between those extremes, the middle, and perhaps the only wise course, is madness. Go ahead and be mad, and may Allah guide you.”
“How’s the Abbot?”
“Shocked. Recovering. But almost overwhelmed with spiritual dread. He feels a consciousness of sin that held open the door to the shang-shang sending. The poor old fellow thoroughly believes that burning shang-shangs’ corpses is merely a gesture that soothes ignorant monks but can’t allay the spiritual menace. You saw those monsters fight?”
“Yes.”
“What Dowlah missed! How that sight would have thrilled him!”
“Did you speak of me to the Abbot?”
“Yes. He sends his blessing. He will pray to a thousand saints to protect you, wherever you go. I don’t know what
he meant, but he mentioned some sacred books. He begs you kindly not to forget to write about them.”
“Did you speak of Elsa Burbage?”
“Why inflict on him more anxiety? No. Nor of Noropa. I prevaricated, Mr. Grayne, about Noropa. I didn’t come here to enquire about him. Mu-ni Gam-po is occasionally very well informed. I hoped that perhaps he had heard something of Dowlah’s plans — some rumor — or perhaps some detail about provisions and porters waiting for him between here and Tibet.”
“Well?”
“He knows nothing.”
“What’s your particular worry about Dowlah?”
“Twenty-one years my prince! Tom Grayne, it needs more than twenty-one hours to destroy an aging man’s love for the boy he tried to build into a man. I always knew he was a rogue. May Allah, blessed be His Prophet, show me mercy — I have never been able to love sincerely persons who were so righteous that butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths!”
Abdul Mirza glanced into the stable and took a horse-blanket down from a hook on the wall. He removed his own beautiful Kashmir shawl and wrapped the smelly blanket over his head and shoulders.
“It will be cold in the passes. Should you overtake her, she may need this.”
“I will say it’s a present from you.”
“And will you do me a favor?”
“If it’s possible. What?”
“Dowlah’s bankers in Delhi were served, this midnight, by phone and special messenger, with an order forbidding them to cash Dowlah’s drafts or to forward money to him through their agents or by any other means. They will not dare to disobey that order. If you should find Dowlah, will you give him this package?”
“What is it?”
“Ten thousand rupees. All I have.”
“I knew you were a good egg,” Tom answered. “Yes, I’ll do that. If he kills me, he’ll take it anyhow. Go ahead, will you, and get ’em to open the gate. I’m ready. Let’s go.”
