Green Lama-Mystic Warrior

by Kevin Olson

  In his hand, he carried a weathered black briefcase, one obviously used for bringing various religious readings and curios to both believers and the uninformed.

  After a few firm knocks, the door was opened by the bodyguard who had been so viciously assaulted the night before. The robust strength of the man was evident; he stood straight and firm, ready to greet the visitor, yet at the same time, coiled and ready to protect the occupants within.

  “My name is the Reverend Dr. Charles Pali. I believe that I am expected by Cheng Yi-chuan.”

  The Mongolian’s face softened ever so slightly in the presence of the holy man. “Please, follow me,” he said slowly in heavily accented English. “Mr. Cheng and his wife Mei are waiting for you in the drawing room.”

  Pali realized that it took real work for the man to speak in a foreign language, and he appreciated this attempt to show him respect.

  They arrived at a finely appointed drawing room, decorated in very traditional American style. Other than a few rare Asian decorative pieces sprinkled about, little was evident of the Chengs’ Chinese origin.

  Already a trained diplomat, Pali thought, ready to make his many callers feel as if he were one of them.

  Cheng was seated in an easy chair, pouring over the morning newspaper, when Dr. Pali entered the room. The diplomat came quickly to his feet and extended a friendly handshake. His eyes dropped to their clasped hands in order to admire Dr. Pali’s ring, one made of woven hair in the six sacred Tibetan colors.

  “Reverend, thank you for visiting me this morning,” he said. “When Mr. Dumont mentioned that you might be available, I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity.

  “As foreign diplomats attacked in your country, we are in a unique position. With your position as both a religious man and a conduit to the authorities, I hope that you can assist us in keeping the communications clear with your local police.”

  Pali looked at Cheng with compassion. He intimately understood what it was like to be a stranger in a foreign land; no matter the level of training or experience, danger had a way of bringing out any feelings of vulnerability.

  “I will do my best to be of assistance,” Pali responded with sincerity.

  His attention was suddenly diverted as Mei entered the room from a side door. She was as magnificent as she had been the evening before. Her art deco patterned cardigan sweater was snug on her figure, falling to a black pencil skirt which revealed smooth, toned legs.

  Her snug sweater would have been scandalous just a few years ago, but now the wardrobe of actresses like Lana Turner on the silver screen had made it acceptable. Mei’s raven hair hung loose, her make-up toned down from the night before, simple black eyeliner over lush lashes.

  “Dr. Pali, I am Mei, the bride of Yi-chuan,” she said immediately, once again surprising Dumont/Pali with her liberated ways. It was a tradition, in both the east and the west, for a woman to wait to be introduced by the man of the house. It was obvious that Mei found these traditions outdated. “My husband told me that Mr. Dumont was having you call on us.”

  “Yes, Jethro is one of my students in the teachings of the East,” Pali said, “and he felt that my presence may bring some peace following last night’s events. I hope that I can present the noble gifts of clean, clear, and calm.”

  “Thank you,” Mei replied warmly. “Though I must admit that Mr. Dumont is a most unique man. He single-handedly rescued us from our captors, and from what my husband and our security chief have surmised, he may have dealt with the other raiders as well.”

  Pali was quick to respond, “Perhaps, though Jethro bragged little to me. I hope that I have helped him to see that the defeat of others is merely a starting point to hatred.”

  At Cheng’s direction, Pali took a seat on a finely upholstered chair across from the couple who both sat upon a scarlet leather sofa. Pali declined the offer for refreshment, and instead pursued any knowledge that they may have of their attempted abductors.

  “I spoke with Jethro prior to coming here,” he said, “and he told me that none of the surviving raiders have spoken with the police. Do you have any insight into the identity of the fallen countrymen who might be of threat to you?”

  Mei spoke up. “I fear that we may be dealing with relocated members of a warlord’s clan,” she said. “For years, many of the bandit armies of China felt no hindrance in sating their own selfish desires, whether for their own benefit or to bring tribute to their warlord commanders.

  “Yet this difficult time led to today’s rule. It was under the dark oppression of the warlords that men began to strive for intellectual diversity and experimentation. Without suffering, I fear that the minds of my countrymen would not have been ready for the intellectual revolution that is driving our nation today.

  “But now the warlords and their bandit armies are scattered, seeking new opportunities,” Mei added. “And in this time of great industrialism, with the world getting smaller, my husband and I fear that they look for new opportunity in your country.”

  Cheng broke in with his thoughts. “I believe our attempted abduction last night was a crime of opportunity and a bold message to both your country and mine. We would have been held for a king’s ransom by a group who wanted it known that the bandit armies of China are here.”

  Pali continued to chat with his hosts for several more minutes, moving away from the dire events of the past evening and exchanging pleasantries about their homeland of China and Pali’s visits to the East.

  The ringing of the phone interrupted their discussion. Cheng excused himself to take the call, predicting a call from official channels to discuss the failed kidnapping.

  Mei rose to her feet.

  “Come, Dr. Pali, let us not waste any more of your time. Let me walk you to the door.”

  A sweet scent of jasmine escaped from Mei as she passed Dr. Pali, leading him to the foyer of the townhouse. Their security chief stood vigilant at his post, as if waiting for another attack to come at any moment.

  Mei took the opportunity to lay a hand of Pali’s arm and to lean close to him, talking in little more of a whisper.

  “I fear that we may know the band that is behind all of this,” she said. “My husband fears talking of it, knowing of the prejudice that many American citizens have against the Chinese. We hear the talk of the Yellow Peril, the devil from the Orient. If word reaches the populace about the enemy that we may be facing, Cheng fears he may fail as the chosen ambassador for our people.”

  “But how can you hope to contain it?” Dr. Pali asked. “These raiders do not appear as men who will disappear quietly into the night.”

  “I most certainly agree. But Cheng feels that Chinese security force can contain the issue. That is the reason for the call that he is on. But I fear that their aid will be too late.”

  Pali leaned closer, offering warm eyes and a sympathetic ear to take in her tale.

  “There is a feared group of bandits known simply as the Hairless Ones. These men are much more than plunders, and raiders; they are a notorious sect of assassins and thieves who have served our nation’s former warlords for generations.

  “And these men are twisted. The Hairless Ones are feared because they recruit the perverse and the evil; murderers, boy-lovers, rapists. It is rumored that they even use some sort of chemical bath, a harsh depilatory, to strip all of the hair from their body, bonding them as one under their leader.”

  Pali pondered every word Mei just said. He then asked, “Last night, the bandits could have waited for the right opportunity to kidnap you. Why do it in such a bold manner?”

  “That is their way,” Mei responded. “They worship one thing: chaos. It is their god, and it is their weapon. For generations, it has been the mantra of the one who leads the Hairless Ones. No one knows who the man is, only referring to him by his symbolic na
me. They call him Nalgiri.”

  Pali knew too well the legend of Nalgiri. In Buddhist lore, Nalgiri was a fierce elephant, dispatched by a mortal enemy of the Buddha to spread chaos and destroy the Buddha. Drunk on spirits, Nalgiri was turned loose on Siddrath to destroy everything in its chaotic path; only the wise Buddha was able to use calm and compassion to stop the murderous elephant.

  Dr. Pali looked deep into Mei’s beautiful eyes. “My daughter, your honesty is most honorable. I will tell you this: I have friends, not in the police force nor among the authorities, but powerful people who may be able to assist in controlling this situation.”

  “I trust in what you say, Reverend,” Mei said, raising her arm, to run a soft comforting hand along Pali’s ruddy cheek. “I witnessed an amazing feat by your friend Jethro Dumont, and now you come to me, another source of both strength and comfort. I know that we are in good hands.”

  At that Mei turned to her security guard, and for a few moments, she was forced to lean up on her black heels to whisper in his ear. He looked at her for a moment and then nodded.

  “My security chief Tan has given me permission to pass on one additional piece of information,” she said.

  “For a time now, Tan has feared that his cousin Qin-Li may be involved in the operation of an illegal opium den in your city’s Chinatown. Tan also has heard rumors that Qin-Li is operating on behalf of a warlord clan.”

  Pali turned to Tan and then spoke to him directly in Mandarin. “My friend, please tell me where I may find your cousin in Chinatown. There is no time to waste in ending this dark threat. Help me to help your masters.”

  And help him he did.

  fff

  Dr. Pali was gone.

  In his place now walked the Green Lama.

  His orthodox clergy garb was now covered by a hooded green monk’s robe that had been secreted away in his briefcase, its dark, forest green silk seeming to capture any light that fell upon it.

  The large hood cast deep shadows across his features, hiding the amiable visage of Dr. Pali, and revealing only the dark slash of a grim mouth above a crimson scarf wrapping his neck.

  The Lama was moving along Mott Street in Manhattan’s Chinatown. He was among the worst of New York City’s opium joints. New Yorkers of all races and social bearing were known to patronize these places of stupefaction, none of them as opulent as their sinister sisters on the West Coast. These were working dens here in New York; simple, decadent hideaways where priority was placed on the high, not the surroundings.

  Despite the occasional crackdown, the city’s opium trade was never seriously threatened by law enforcement. Chinatown itself was hardly ever visited by police, and the opium dens were almost completely ignored. Caraway had complained of this several times to Dumont, remarking that occasionally, when the police department found itself short of funds, they would conduct some sort of raid on the dens, but for the most part, they were left unmolested. This was not an approach that Caraway agreed with, but as a street-smart member of the large metropolitan police force, he chose his battles wisely.

  The Green Lama approached the address that Tan had supplied to him. It was a nondescript door under a tattered awning on Mott Street. Only a small, bent bell hung by the side of the door, a chain hanging from within, ready to make known that a guest waited at the door.

  The Lama chose not to announce his arrival. Instead he simply entered the den, ready for whatever he might find. The door, much heavier than it appeared, opened easily, and he made his way within.

  A small lobby area greeted him. Several old chairs were set back against the wall, and a grimy counter stood in front of a single door leading deeper into the den.

  The Green Lama’s highly sensitive hearing picked up a slight buzz from behind the door, indicating that he was standing on some sort of monitoring device.

  It was only a few moments before the door opened, and a middle-aged Chinese man walked through. He was not the skinny, strung-out addict that the Lama had expected; rather this man was short and bespectacled, carrying a few extra pounds around his waistline.

  “Yes?” he asked, in heavily accented English, a large smile on his face. “How can I help you, dear sir? Is there a need that I can meet?”

  The Green Lama seemed almost to glide across the room, growing in both stature and strength as he moved closer to his host.

  “I have been sent to meet the one known as Qin-Li. His cousin Tan has a message that only I convey. Can I see him?”

  The smile on the face of his host grew even wider.

  “Of course, of course. Qin-Li welcomes all guests to his place of business. Especially those sent by Tan the Powerful.”

  The host quickly turned to walk through the door behind him, waving the Green Lama around the counter to follow him.

  They entered a long hall, doors aligned on either side. The smell of sin was strong here, a pungent mixture of aging teak woods and burning sweet syrups, with a slight hint of a decaying floral. The Lama knew that the scent behind the doors, where the opium pipes were burning, would be even headier.

  His host turned to look up at him with an almost sinister smile. “What a pleasant surprise for Qin-Li. He will be most delighted.”

  With a laugh, he turned back on his intended path and then brought Dumont to a stop at a door near the first turn in the hallway.

  Pulling a key from a ring hanging at his waist, the man opened the door and beckoned for the Lama to enter. It was a simple space, dark with a few candles burning and a long wooden shelf on the wall holding various forms of brass lamps and pipes. A stained curtain hung over one section of high-ceilinged wall, seemingly the room’s sole decorative touch.

  Only a single chair on the room’s corner provided any form of seating, while tattered blankets laying on the floor were intended to play host to any partaking addicts.

  “You wait, you wait,” his host said. “I return soon with Qin-Li.”

  With that, he quickly backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Though he attempted to do it faintly, the Lama heard him re-lock the door from the outside, tumblers falling into place.

  The Green Lama did not have long to wait. Soon after his host departed, he sensed the steps of numerous feet in the hallway outside his room, his felt-soled feet feeling the vibrations carried through the teak floors.

  The visitors paused for a moment or two. And then the Green Lama heard the cocking of firearms.

  Bullets cut through the room, chewing up the wood, crisscrossing the small space in a symphony of death.

  Round followed after round, seeking to extinguish the life of the room’s lone inhabitant.

  When the bullets stopped, the guns exhausted of their ammunition, the killers reloaded. The lock then clicked open, and three gunmen entered, the light from the hall spilling into the candlelit room.

  Each was dressed in black; Mauser pistols extended forward and aimed low, hoping to make a kill shot if their target still existed. And like the raiders from the museum, each gunman was devoid of any hair on head or face.

  Their eyes went large when they saw the destruction to the room, but no victim was to be found.

  The Green Lama was gone!

  The smiling host entered behind the gunmen. At first, he had a look of wide-eyed anticipation on his face. Upon seeing that the room contained no victim, only a single fallen chair lying on its side, his expression was replaced by one of fury.

  “Where is he?” he yelled to the gunmen in Mandarin.

  “We do not know, Qin-Li,” one of them replied in his native tongue. “There was no time for him to escape prior to our strike! Even the door was still locked.”

  From outside in the hall, voices of the customers could be heard questioning what was happening, some fearing a police raid, others simply disoriented and responding
to the chatter.

  “He must have escaped into the labyrinth!” Qin-Li exclaimed. At that, he pulled back the tattered curtain hanging across the wall. Behind the curtain was a small wooden door cut into the wall. With one hand, he pulled down on a small cargo-style handle, and with the other hand, he pushed the door open.

  “Go, go!” he demanded. “I’ll handle the chaos up here.”

  One after another, the gunmen stepped through the dark opening as Qin-Li raced to pacify his confused clientele.

  fff

  Having heard the guns being cocked, the Lama instantly suspected a trap.

  With a trained grace, the Green Lama took one, then two, bounding steps across the room, and then using the chair to propel him, leaped up into the upper corner of the room.

  Using a climber’s technique that he had learned in Tibet, he caught both corners of the wall with his hands and feet. Tensing his body, he pushed his back up against the ceiling and held himself there.

  Using a deep, internal yoga breath, he paused and waited. In this position, he could hold himself for an extended period of time. A long breath in, a long breath out, fingers and toes extended, all working together to allow him to maintain his precarious perch.

  “Where is he?”

  Now a shadowy figure in the upper portion of the room, he watched the scene play out below. Tan’s lead had been correct. Once the room was vacated, the Green Lama released his hands and feet, dropping swiftly to the floor in a dark crouch and quickly making his way to the passage entrance. Pulling down on the cargo handle as Qin-Li had done, the Lama pressed on the disguised door and felt it open to his touch.