by Fritz Galt
On one side, a dirt road led through small villages to the water. May had called it Erhai Lake. That would be their destination.
“Why are you carrying a purse?”
“Huh? Oh.” The handbag was slipping out. “This?”
She grabbed it and tore into it. Her tiny fist drew out a wallet, and she dropped the bag. She pulled several hundred-yuan notes out and handed a few to him. Then she extracted a pair of laminated cards.
Her eyes grew bigger. “Shen fen cheng. Proof of identity.”
“National ID cards?”
“Yes.” She threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss.
Between another dust cloud from a passing truck and the extended embrace, he was running out of oxygen. To what did he owe the pleasure? Oh hell. He decided to go ahead and enjoy the kiss.
At last she released him, leaving a dizzy, though aroused, young dude. “Uh, thanks,” he said.
“No. Thanks to you,” she asserted, “we have new names.”
She studied the first card and handed it to him. It showed a young woman.
“You are Ming Wen,” she told him. Then in a lower octave, she said, “And I am Shu Wo.”
“Wait. I’m not gonna wear a dress.”
He made a lunge for her identity card, but she turned in time to protect it.
This wasn’t funny. He threw an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet. She giggled, but wouldn’t trade cards. “Give me that.” He got his fingers on the card and tugged. She twisted away.
She broke free and danced down the road, holding the card over her head. “Come and get me, Ming Wen,” she said with a laugh.
That did it. He charged after her. She skipped lightly down the road toward the lake. He was sure his able legs were a good match for her bare feet. He concentrated on the small of her back, the flowing waist-length hair that billowed behind her, and the curvature of her posterior silhouetted against the late afternoon sun. He could chase her forever.
“Ming Wen!” she teased over her shoulder.
She was every bit as fleet as he was. Maybe it was his sore legs. Yeah, that was it.
She headed into a field of wild grass. That was her mistake. She couldn’t stand it long in bare feet, and he was upon her in seconds.
She gasped, laughing, and fell on a bed of grass. Gazing dreamily at her new identity card, she began to kiss it all over.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“Oh, Shu Wo,” she said between kisses. “I love you.”
He fell on top of her and yanked the card away. She flipped him onto his back and gazed down at him. She stroked his cheeks. Her black hair fell around him, obscuring the deep blue sky. All he knew was that her lips began eagerly searching for his.
Suddenly, she was tender and sweet and apologetic. He forgave her.
“See, you are the woman.” She rubbed the palm of her hands against his manly chest.
“Try this.” He rolled her over onto her back and landed between her legs. He reached for her breasts. “I think these puppies are more like it.”
“Oh, Ming,” she uttered under her breath. But further words eluded her, and only slight moans escaped her lips.
Somewhere in the process of tugging at each other’s clothes, a transformation occurred in him. He was one with the earth and the Chinese people. And the new identity stuck.
Whether he liked it or not, his new name was Ming Wen.
Chapter 46
Beau Buford awoke from a morning catnap, and found he couldn’t move. The mattress was comfortable enough. He wasn’t wearing handcuffs. It was the pain in his head that prevented him from sitting up.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He rubbed his bald head vigorously. But nothing could drive the hammering pain away.
Where in the world was he? He tried to remember what he had done most recently. He had a mental image of a man shot dead in Paris. There was a high-tech train ride across the mustard fields and rolling mountains of eastern France. Then he remembered numerous phone calls until dawn. That was it. He was at the villa on the outskirts of Zurich.
He was just overtired.
He tried to remember Liang’s reaction to seeing Shangri-la. “Ay-yo. It’s beautiful!” He tried to dwell on the naked woman in the photograph. Without the cell phone in hand, he couldn’t quite summon up the image. Perhaps it was the miasma in his head that drove them out.
At last he forced one eyelid open at a time. Boy it was bright. Direct sunlight blasted through the shutters. Was there some sort of nuclear explosion outside?
He leaned over and fumbled for his shaded eyeglasses.
He rose to his feet, lurched over to the window, and raised the shutters. The broad Swiss lake was awash in light. Hot air blasted in his face.
At last it came to him. He was experiencing a phenomenon unique to Switzerland: the föhn. Every few years, a dry warm wind off the northern slopes of the Alps cleared all the clouds away and brought dazzling light and clarity. He leaned forward and looked toward the southeast end of the lake.
Sure enough, he could see snowcapped peaks clearly etched against the sky. It looked like a postcard.
Meanwhile, Liang would be getting a rare glimpse of Shangri-la, buried deep in the frozen Himalayas.
The sunlight had an increasingly agonizing effect on him. He staggered out of the room toward the study.
In the darkness, he opened his laptop and waited for his financial program to load. Now to check his and Liang’s joint bank accounts. The first account to appear was the main one at Zürich Cantonal Bank. Two billion dollars appeared on the screen. With a stubby finger, he counted the zeros. Everything was there. He was one rich man. He tried to remember Fortune Magazine’s list of top billionaires. If liquidity counted for anything, they would list him and Liang as tied for first place.
Then he spent several minutes distributing the money to secret accounts, some in Switzerland and others on Grand Cayman Island. If some bureaucrat at the Treasury Department froze his assets, he would still have more treasure buried around the world.
He checked his watch. It was after noon in China. He picked up his cell phone and tried to reach Liang.
Again, he received the same recording he had heard before. The phone company could not find Liang’s mobile.
He slid the phone across the desk. The tiny instrument was becoming less useful by the minute. It was disconcerting that he had lost contact with Liang, who was at the center of his operation.
He grabbed the note he had scribbled the night before. It contained Liang’s GPS reading shortly before they lost contact. At least he had somewhere to send his clients. And according to the photographs, there was plenty of space to set down a small plane.
He needed to contact Liang’s friend Colonel Chou Peng to prepare for the world leaders in Beijing. They would need to fly on to Yunnan Province. From there, they could be helicoptered in to Shangri-la. He was sure that Peng could get the Chinese military to supply the choppers and maybe other aircraft for a “sightseeing” trip.
Once the plan gelled in his mind, he placed the call to Peng.
There was no immediate response.
Strange. Peng normally answered personal calls promptly.
Finally, a female picked up. “Wei?” she said uncertainly.
Buford pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where is Colonel Chou Peng?”
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “He has been shot.”
Shot? Buford’s heart nearly came to a standstill. Who would shoot Peng?
“Can he come to the phone?”
“I’m sorry,” she responded. “He is dead.”
Buford slumped in his seat. This was bad news. He gripped the edge of his desk before asking the next logical question. “Who shot him?”
“Two boys and two girls. Foreign devils.”
Damn it, Brad and May were still at large. “Where are they?”
“I’m sorry. They are running away.”
His voice dr
opped with cold fury. “I want you to find Brad West and Yu May Hua. Find them and kill them.”
The woman took the names down, sounding them out slowly. “And who are you?”
Buford was not about to reveal his identity. “I’m a friend. But you need to look for the culprits.”
“And where are they?”
How should he know? He was in Switzerland. “I don’t know where they are, but one thing is for certain: they will be heading for the mountains.”
“What mountains?”
“The Himalayas.”
“Can you be more specific?”
He flipped over the GPS note and reflected on where Brad might head after killing a colonel in the PLA. He would be going far away, and most likely try to find Liang. Brad didn’t possess Professor Fried’s document, so he wouldn’t have specific directions. Nor was he in the air flying after Liang, since Brad was busy shooting Peng.
Buford didn’t know the geography of western China very well, but one thing was for certain. “They’re heading for Shangri-la.”
“Shangri-la!” the woman said, her shrill response sounding incredulous. “Thank you for the information.”
He dropped his arm and let the phone fall to the floor. Brad and May were still free. A constant thorn in his side, they remained a threat to his newly built financial empire.
His headache had taken on a massive new dimension.
Chapter 47
Wind blew off the front of the ferryboat and swept May’s hair into her eyes. She tucked it behind her ears and turned to Brad. “Did you know that Shangri-la is in China?”
He looked away from Erhai Lake. “You know where Shangri-la is?”
“Yes. Our government has named the area to the north of here ‘Shangri-la.’”
He laughed at himself. For a moment, he thought she actually knew where to find Liang and her father.
He returned his gaze to Suo Island. It was a steep hill shaped like a cone. Beyond the island was a wall of mountains against which the old town of Dali sat, its distinctive Three Pagodas standing out in sharp relief.
The western provinces of China had attempted to capitalize on the myth of Shangri-la to boost tourism and join tourist departments into a common ecological tourism zone. The attempt had failed, but one ethnically Tibetan town, Zhongdian, had put all scruples aside and renamed itself Shangri-la.
“You don’t suppose Liang and your dad are in Zhongdian.”
She gave him a curious look. “Not Zhongdian. Shangri-la.”
“You don’t believe all that propaganda, do you?” He was disappointed in her.
“Why do you ask about Zhongdian? I am talking about Shangri-la.”
“So it isn’t the same place?”
“You are lost.”
He let it go.
“Why did you suggest this island?” she pressed.
He looked at the place their ferryboat was approaching. The easiest response was that they needed to hide out, and the island looked remote enough. But he was distracted by their boat’s loud engine suddenly sputtering to a halt.
The metal vessel, with its curved yellow tile roof and dragon’s head on the bow, drifted to a stop.
He glanced over his shoulder. They were several miles from the marshy shore.
The island lay fifty meters ahead. It was rimmed by a fishing village.
The captain climbed down from the wheelhouse to the engine room. In the sudden stillness, Brad could reflect on the beauty of the setting. They were approaching the uninhabited part of the island. Half the lagoon was filled with the broad leaves of lotus plants that formed a solid layer on the surface. Their eight-sided blossoms, open during daylight, would close soon. They reminded him of what Tibetan texts had said about Shambhala.
The texts compared the physical makeup of the hidden land to an eight-petaled lotus blossom. The Buddhist Garden of Eden consisted of eight regions, each surrounded by a ring of mountains.
With no map in hand and no document spelling out Shangri-la’s location to him, the comparison to a lotus blossom was a valuable guide. Maybe he could secure a topographical map and search the area for an arrangement of eight regions.
Blue smoke billowed out of the engine compartment. The captain’s wife set to work with rags and water, but May gave him a hopeless shrug. They weren’t going to make it to the island.
Brad calculated the remaining distance. “Looks like we’ll have to swim.”
“That is interesting.”
He looked up at her. “Why?”
“Because I cannot swim.”
He was astonished. How could this pilot, this military hero, this candidate for space flight not know how to swim?
“All right. Let’s grab some life vests.” He waved the smoke out of his face and entered the cabin in search of vests.
He checked overhead and under seats, but came up empty-handed. How could a ferry operate on such a large lake without life vests, especially in a country where people didn’t know how to swim?
He retreated to the stern and leaned over the side. There, several Styrofoam rings protected the hull. He pulled one up by its rope and prepared it for May to wear by wiping out the spider webs.
“Try this around your neck,” he said.
“You have got to be kidding.”
Sure, she had gone from a wedding gown to an insect-infested life preserver all in one day, a precipitous drop in fashion, but she had to get to the island.
“I cannot swim,” she reminded him.
“I know that. So wear this.” And he forced it over her head.
“No, you are not understanding,” she tried again. “I can bob, but I cannot swim.”
The sense of what she was saying wasn’t getting through to him. Maybe he was just dense. “Can you jump into the water?”
“Yes.”
“Can you float in the water?”
“Yes.”
“Then why can’t you swim?”
“I will show you,” she said, and put one foot on the railing. Then she mounted it and threw herself into the lake.
She disappeared at once. He held his breath and waited. He was an okay swimmer, but he had no experience in water safety.
Soon the waters parted, and the top of her head appeared, followed by her face.
“See?” she said.
Everything looked fine to him. He still couldn’t figure out what she was getting at. He took one last look at the island, a fifteen-minute swim away. Then he judged the drop to the surface. Two meters wasn’t too far.
So he took the plunge. The moment his feet left the railing, he lost his nerve. Had he misjudged the risks? It didn’t feel normal to fly through the air. He clawed for the boat, but it was too late. Wind ripped in his ears. He stared down at the glassy surface.
It was going to be cold. He hit the water feet first. Before he knew it, his entire body was submerged and he heard a rush of water and bubbles. He braced for the shock of hitting bottom, but there was no impact. Instead, he drifted steadily downward. Okay, so he would have to swim back up.
He flapped his arms, but made no headway against his downward momentum. His movements became more desperate. His animal instincts took over. He cupped his fingers and pressed down hard. He kicked in unison with his arm movements. He felt more like a drowning frog than a frogman. He was still enveloped in darkness. Was he pushing in the wrong direction?
Several frantic kicks later, he felt his lungs about to burst.
How had May bobbed to the surface so quickly?
For one thing, his shoes were waterlogged and dragged him down. It didn’t help that he was wearing so many clothes. How could he accuse May of not being able to swim, when he couldn’t even float? It felt like he had never learned how to swim.
He felt a sweet, icy sensation in his mouth. Fresh water. If it were salty, he would be more buoyant. He was simply too heavy to rise.
He had to pull his thoughts together. Stop blaming. He had to get his brain and body to fun
ction as one.
It took a moment to regain his composure. If he wanted to live, to find Dr. Yu, to stop Liang, to marry May, if he wanted a future as an anthropologist in China, and if those were the right things to do, then he must submit to his fate.
Finally he calmed down. Only then did he sense upward movement.
One of his hands struck a foreign object. It was a leg. It was May. He clutched at her and began to pull. She resisted and kicked in his face, but he had to get to the surface. Soon he had her by the torso. He pulled down on her shoulders and finally broke the surface.
He coughed up water and sucked in a lungful of air. Looking about, he couldn’t find May. Had he drowned her?
At last she popped up, and gasped for air.
The two of them hacked and coughed in unison. Then she turned on him. “You pulled me under. I could be dead.”
How could he explain that he had needed her to save his life?
She continued to lambast him. “Did you jump in to save me or kill me?”
She was a woman who didn’t want to die. Okay, he had done an unforgivably stupid thing. So now what were they going to do?
The boat was dead in the water, and they had only managed to get wet.
“Let’s swim for shore,” he suggested.
“I cannot swim.”
He wasn’t going to argue. In fact, she was beginning to make sense. She knew her limitations better than he did. Besides, he had to conserve energy just to stay afloat.
“There is a boat,” she called, her lips barely above water.
Sure enough, someone on the island had spotted them in trouble and launched a rowboat to rescue them. A minute later, a blue eye painted on the bow edged past them, and two strong arms hauled them on deck.
“Thank you,” Brad said, forever in the fisherman’s debt.
He turned to May. “Let’s not try that again.”
She parted her hair and stared up at him. Then he saw a rueful smile.
“I know. You warned me,” he said before she could speak. “You cannot swim.” He hung his head. “Apparently, neither can I.”
Chapter 48
Beau Buford was having a bad day.
